JAMES  BEVANWOOD 
BARONET 


JAMES   BEVANWOOD,   BARONET 
HENRY  ST.   JOHN   COOPER 


JAMES  BEVANWOOD 
BARONET 


BY 
HENRY   ST.   JOHN   COOPER 

AUTHOR   OF   "SUNNY   DUCROW" 


NEW  ^SJT    YORK 
GEORGE   H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1921, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


Stack 
Annex 


IMS 

r5k? 
0 


TO 

MY   WIFE 


813S006 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGH 

I  How  EKID  FOUND  HER  LOVER      .        .       n 

II  How  JIM  WOODS  FOUGHT  FOR  His  GIRL      21 

III  ATONEMENT      .  .        .        ,        .31 

IV  THE  NEW  HOME    .   ,     .        .        .        .41 
V  "POOR  LITTLE  KID!"       ....       50 

VI  THE  PASSING  OF  SIR  HAROLD       .        .       55 

VII  "THE  THING  OF  HER  DREAMS"    .        .       59 

VIII  THE  WHEEL  TURNS     ....       67 

IX  "Mv   LADY"   ......       73 

X  THE   HOME-COMING        ....       78 

XI  THE   AWAKENING          ....       86 

XII  THEIR   SEPARATE   WAYS        ...       93 

XIII  THE   HUNGER 97 

XIV  THEY  Two   ....*.     108 
XV    ADRIFT :.        .no 

XVI  How  THE  NEWS  CAME  TO  JIM      ,        .119 

XVII  THE  BEST  FOR  HER     .        .        .        .124 

XVIII    THE  FEAR 131 

XIX  How  JIM  MADE  A  NEW  HOME       »        .     138 

XX  THE  ROAD   HOME         ....     144 

XXI  THE  BRAMBLE               .        .        .        .152 
vii 


viii  Contents 

i 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII  JIM   FACES   FAILURE      .        .        .        .160 

XXIII  IN  WHICH  'Nro  COMES  HOME      .        .     162 

XXIV  WHAT  HE  DID 164 

XXV    "MAY  I  STAY?" 173 

XXVI  "THE  SUMMER  WILL  Go"    .        .        .178 

XXVII     FOUND 187 

XXVIII  "THE  FOOL"           .        .        .        .        .     191 

XXIX  THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHADOW      .        .     197 

XXX    GONE 206 

XXXI  How  BILLY  FOUND  HER       .        .        .216 

XXXII  "I   DIDN'T  KNOW"         i                               220 

XXXIII  "I  TOLD  HIM  NOTHING"       .        .        .227 

XXXIV  THE  LONELY  ROAD        .        .        .        .231 
XXXV  "FATE!"          .        .        .        .,      .        .238 

XXXVI  THE  FINISHING  OF  THE  BRIDGE    .        .     245 


JAMES   BEVANWOOD,  BARONET 


JAMES   BEVANWOOD,    BARONET 

CHAPTER  I 

HOW    ENID    FOUND    HER    LOVER 

VERY  weary,  very,  very  tired  of  it  all,  and  yet  how 
easily  things  might  be  far  worse !  She  had  a  roof 
to  cover  her,  enough  food  for  her  small  wants,  clothes, 
such  as  they  were ;  the  sordid,  trumpery  finery  with  which 
other  girls  decked  themselves  had  never  appealed  to 
her.  To  her  clothes  were  simply — clothes,  and  so,  easily, 
things  might  be  worse.  There  were  many  other  girls  who 
would  count  themselves  as  lucky  if  they  could  change  lots 
with  her. 

But  for  the  rest  she  had  a  great  and  unsatisfied  hunger, 
a  strange,  undefined  yearning  and  longing  for  some- 
thing— something  she  had  never  known.  Here  it  was  al- 
ways the  same — to-day  as  yesterday,  and  all  the  yester- 
days and  to-morrows — the  same  sounds,  the  deep  nasal 
breathing  of  the  other  women,  the  thud,  thud  of  their 
irons,  the  indescribable  smell  that  had  become  part  of 
her  very  life.  The  steam,  the  strong  soap,  the  musty 
scent  of  the  unwashed  linen,  all  mingled  in  one  familiar 
whole ;  that  smell  was  part  and  parcel  of  her  daily  exist- 
ence, for  nine  hours  a  day  she  had  her  being  in  it. 

The  woman  working  beside  her  was  very  fat,  but  she 

ii 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

was  a  skilled  ironer.  She  worked  fast  and  furious,  gasp- 
ing and  panting  over  her  work  and  snoring  in  an  un- 
pleasant manner. 

"Look  out!"  she  said  suddenly.  "Now  you  done  it, 
'Nid!" 

The  girl  started,  she  came  back  to  life  and  reality. 
Yes,  she  had  done  it,  she  had  hesitated  a  moment  too  long, 
the  goffering  iron  had  made  a  faint  yellow  scorchmark 
on  the  frilled  petticoat  she  was  working  at.  She  hurried 
on  with  her  work,  praying  that  Miss  Henderson's  sharp 
eyes  might  not  see  it. 

It  was  always  the  same,  when  she  got  to  thinking  over 
her  work,  she  always  did  something  of  the  kind;  she 
ought  not  to  think. 

"She'll  know  it's  you  or  'Liz,"  Jakes,  the  fat  woman, 
said.  "You're  the  only  two  goffering  to-day!" 

"I'll  tell  her!"  the  girl  said. 

"You'll  be  lucky  if  you  get  out  of  it  under  five  bob !" 
the  fat  woman  said ;  then  she  went  on  with  her  work. 

The  girl  went  on  working,  too.  Yes,  she  would  be 
lucky  to  get  out  of  it  under  five  bob.  Five  bob  meant 
almost  a  third  of  her  week's  pay,  meant  the  loss  of  two 
days.  Well,  it  could  not  be  helped;  it  would  be  all  the 
same  a  hundred  years  hence. 

The  floor  rocked  and  the  walls  gave  back  the  sound 
of  the  engine  thumping  and  banging  away  down  in  the 
basement — the  engine  that  was  driving  the  machinery 
that  mangled,  tore,  crushed  and  wrenched  the  dirt  out  of 
the  linen. 

The  girl  tp  whom  this  petticoat  belonged,  she  tried 

to  visualise  her.     She  would  be  young  and  happy,  with 

plenty  of  money ;  she  would  have  a  good  time  of  course, 

tennis  and  theatres  and  parties.    It  was  not  fair,  it  was 

12 


How  Enid  Found  Her  Lover 

not  fair  that  that  girl  should  have  everything  and  she 
nothing,  just  this  daily  grind,  the  reek  of  the  soapsuds, 
the  steam  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  And,  of  course,  when 
this  girl  found  the  yellow  scorchmark  on  her  petticoat  she 
would  make  a  row,  she  would  write  a  furious  letter  to 
Miss  Henderson;  then  the  trouble  would  start. 

"Sick  of  it !"  the  girl  muttered.  She  had  finished  the 
petticoat,  she  folded  it  neatly  and  deftly,  laid  it  aside, 
and  took  up  the  next  thing  for  her  irons  to  operate  on. 

Now  her  head  was  beginning  to  ache,  it  always  did 
at  a  certain  hour  of  the  afternoon.  It  meant  that  the 
day's  work  was  nearly  over.  It  was  funny  that  her  head 
kept  clear  till  this  time,  then  started  to  ache.  It  proved 
that  she  was  doing  just  as  much  as  she  was  capable  of. 
She  looked  up  and  down  the  long  ironing  table.  There 
were  thirty  women  here  besides  herself,  women  and  girls, 
many  of  them  old  and  hideous,  but  they  knew  their  work, 
and  worked  like  slaves  because  theirs  was  piece  work, 
and  there  were  rent  and  food  and  other  things  to  be  con- 
sidered. The  younger  girls  took  things  rather  more  easily, 
now  and  again  they  talked.  Generally  it  was  about  some 
"feller,"  or  a  hat,  a  dress,  or  the  melodrama  at  the 
Grand.  Somehow  they  had  no  sympathy  with  her,  nor 
she  with  them.  She  often  wondered  why  they  did  not 
understand  her  and  she  did  not  understand  them.  They 
worked  here  in  the  Snowflake  Laundry  together,  they 
ate  the  same  food,  lived  in  much  the  same  kind  of  house, 
much  the  same  kind  of  life,  yet  they  were  miles  apart. 

For  one  thing,  she  knew  no  "feller"  to  talk  about. 
She  hated  men,  felt  a  little  afraid  of  them,  avoided  them. 
As  for  the  theatre,  she  never  went  inside  one. 

She  wanted  something,  that  she  knew,  that  instinct  told 
her,  these  other  girls  never  even  thought  of.  Her 

13 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

heart,  her  very  soul,  hungered  for  something  different — 
a  blue  sea  and  a  blue  sky,  wind-swept  hills.  It  was  all 
dim  and  vague  and  indistinct.  She  had  never  seen  the 
sea  in  her  life,  yet  she  pictured  it  to  herself,  a  great, 
a  vast  sheet  of  water.  She  had  seen  the  advertisements 
on  the  hoardings  of  the  railway  companies,  she  formed 
her  idea  of  the  sea  from  those.  The  sea  was  always  a 
deep  blue,  the  same  blue  as  the  blue  they  blued  the 
white  linen  with.  There  was  always  a  blue  sky  with  a 
yellow,  pillow-like  cloud  floating  over  it.  There  were 
also  specks  of  white  on  the  blue  of  the  sea.  What  the 
specks  were  she  did  not  know. 

But  she  hungered  for  it,  yearned  for  it,  shut  her  eyes 
and  saw  visions  of  it,  then  opened  them  again  and  saw 
the  long  ironing  table  and  the  perspiring  women  at  their 
work. 

And  now  her  head  was  aching  badly,  madly.  It  was 
a  sign  that  it  was  time  to  leave  off. 

A  bell  rang  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  stopped.  Sud- 
denly every  one  began  to  talk  at  once. 

"Just  about  fed  up!"  the  stout  woman  said.  "Lor*, 
don't  my  arm  ache,  not  'arf — got  a  touch  of  rheumatics 
in  the  shoulder,  that's  what !  Now  then,  big  eyes,  didn't 
you  'ear  the  bell?" 

"Big  eyes"  was  the  girl.  Yes,  she  had  heard  the 
bell.  It  meant  freedom  from  slavery,  it  meant  that  for 
the  next  twelve  hours  she  would  be  free  of  the  laundry 
smell  and  the  thud,  thud  of  the  irons,  the  clank  and 
shake  of  the  engine  down  in  the  basement. 

She  went  out,  joining  the  crowd  of  women  and  girls. 
She  went  to  the  long,  narrow,  dark  room  where  the  hats 
and  coats  hung.    She  found  her  own  and  put  it  on. 
14 


How  Enid  Found  Her  Lover 

"Said  'is  name  was  Alf,  and  'e  was  getting  two  quid  a 
week!"  a  girl  was  saying. 

"Don't  you  swallow  all  you  'ear!"  another  girl  said. 

"  'Ello,  'Nid,  'ow's  your  'ead,  bad  as  usual  ?" 

"Yes,  the  same  as  usual,  bad — aching  'orribly!"  the 
girl  said. 

"Poor  kid,  you'll  'ave  to  chuck  it  sooner  or  later! 
It  ain't  every  one's  strong  enough  for  it.  Why  don't 
you  go  back  to  the  sorting?" 

"I  can't  stand  it!"  the  girl  said.  "I  'ate  the  smell 
there,  and  besides,  I  couldn't  live  on  the  money !" 

The  other  laughed.  "Well,  you'll  'ave  to  stick  it  some- 
how, I  suppose,  same  as  the  rest  of  us !" 

They  trooped  out  into  the  street. 

It  was  not  a  nice  street,  it  was  a  back  street.  The 
Snowflake  Laundry  was  a  small,  squat,  ugly  building, 
along  the  top  of  which  ran  a  black  board  with  the  name 
painted  on  it  in  white. 

"There's  the  bloke!"  a  girl  said.  "There  he  is — sure 
as  fate  Vs  'anging  about  'ere  every  blessed  night;  'oo's 
'e  after?" 

"  'E  ain't  much  to  look  at  neither !"  another  girl  said. 

'Nid  glanced  across  the  street.  She  saw  a  young  man ; 
he  was  big  and  broad  shouldered.  He  was  plain  faced, 
very  plain  looking  and  commonplace ;  there  was  nothing 
distinguished  about  him. 

"Not  much  style  about  'im,  'ooever  'e  is !"  a  girl  said. 

The  man  looked  across  at  the  girls  trooping  out  through 
the  wide  gate  with  a  curiously  eager  look  in  his  eyes. 
He  seemed  to  hesitate,  he  shivered  obviously,  noticeably. 
The  girls  stared  at  him,  and  'Nid  saw  a  dull  red  flush 
come  into  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  drooped.  She  saw  him 
clench  and  unclench  his  hands  nervously. 

15 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

The  girls  hurried  off  in  twos  and  threes;  the  elder 
women,  mostly  carrying  small  bundles,  trudged  home. 

'Nid  was  left  to  herself;  she  had  no  companion,  no 
bosom  friend  among  them  all.  Her  own  home  was  not 
far  away,  two  small  rooms  in  a  dingy  little  house.  She 
paid  six  shillings  a  week  for  them,  that  left  her  eleven 
shillings  for  food,  clothing,  fire  and  light,  except  when 
she  was  fined  for  something.  It  looked  as  if  she  would 
be  five  shillings  short  in  her  money  this  week  through 
that  scorched  petticoat.  Well,  she  would  have  to  manage 
on  six,  she  had  done  it  before. 

"I  wish "  she  said,  "I  wish "  she  often  said 

she  wished,  but  never  gave  utterance  to  the  exact  wish. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  know  what  it  was.  It  had  never 
taken  any  tangible  form,  but  she  wished — there  was 
something  she  wished  for,  something  different,  some- 
thing  

"I — I  wonder  if  you'd  mind  me  speaking  to  you?" 

The  girl  turned. 

It  was  the  man,  he  had  followed  her.  He  stood  before 
her  now,  he  had  plucked  off  his  shabby  cap  and  stood 
bareheaded  before  her.  She  drew  back  instinctively,  into 
her  eyes  came -the  suspicious  look,  the  defiant  look  of  a 
young,  wild  animal. 

"I  don't  mean  to — to  insult  you — or  anything,"  the 

man  said.  "I  only  just  wanted '  He  paused.  "To — 

to  speak  to  you.  Do  you  mind?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  say?"  she  asked.  She  almost 
wondered  at  herself.  She  knew  that  she  ought  to  turn 
her  back  on  him  and  walk  on,  proving  to  him  she  was 
not  a  girl  who  could  be  addressed  by  any  stranger  in 
the  street. 

He  stood  before  her,  big,  awkward,  tongue-tied,  dumb. 
16 


How  Enid  Found  Her  Lover 

"Well?"  she  said  sharply,  "what  is  it?" 

"I — I  don't  know  quite — only  I — I  just  wanted  to 
speak  to  you,  that's  all.  I — I  thought  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  mind !"  There  was  almost  a  pathetic  look  in 
his  face,  a  pleading  in  his  eyes. 

"It's  funny  your  wanting  to  speak  and — and  not 
having  nothing  to  say!" 

Her  suspicion  died  out — a  sensation  of  superiority 
came  to  her.  Somehow  she  felt  herself  better  and  above 
this  man,  she  did  not  quite  know  how  or  why,  but  the 
feeling  came,  and  strangely  enough  it  remained  always. 
She  was  a  superior  being  to  this  big,  awkward,  anxious- 
eyed  man. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"It — it  isn't  that  I've  got  nothing  to  say,"  he  stam- 
mered, "but — but  it's  that  I  don't  know  quite  how  to  say 

it "  He  paused,  then  suddenly  it  came  from  him 

with  a  burst  of  confidence. 

"It's  like  this — I — I  never  had  a  girl.  I've  listened  to 
the  chaps  talking  of — of  girls,  their  sweethearts,  you  see 
— I  seemed  out  of  it  somehow — they  used  to  laugh  at  me, 
said  I  was  too  shy  ever  to  speak  to  a  girl 

"Well?"  she  said  uncompromisingly.  "So  you  spoke 
to  me  just,  to — to  prove " 

"No,  it  wasn't  that.  I  saw  you  one  night  weeks  ago, 
you  was  coming  out  of  that  place.  I  just  saw  you  and 
started  thinking  about  you,  about  you  and  your  eyes, 
and  your  little  pale  face ;  you  can't  be  very  old,  can  you  ?" 

"I  don't  see  that's  got  anything '  She  paused.  "I 

ain't  seventeen  till  next  month!" 

"I  thought  you  was  about  that  age,"  he  said.  "I'm 

twenty-three,  my  name's "  He  paused.  "Woods — 

at  least,  it  isn't  all  my  name,  it's  enough,  it's  all  I  use. 

17 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

It  saves  talking  and  the  others  laughing  about  it " 

"Well?"  Whenever  she  said  "Well?"  it  seemed  to 
affect  him,  he  seemed  to  stiffen  up. 

"I  saw  you  that  night,  weeks  ago;  every  night  I've 
tried  to  come  along  at  the  same  time,  just — just  to  see 
you — I've  seen  you  most  nights.  Every  night  I've  said 
to  myself,  I'll  try  my  luck  and  speak  to  her,  and — and 
then  I  saw  those  other  girls  staring  at  me  and  laughing 
and  somehow-^well,  I  couldn't — only  to-night  I  made  up 
my  mind,  I  swore  to  myself  I'd  speak  and  I've  done 
it "  He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"And  you  don't  mind,  you  aren't  offended  ?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him.  No,  she  did  not  mind,  she  was 
not  offended.  She  remembered  what  the  other  girls  had 
said  of  him — he  was  not  their  style,  he  was  not  anything 
to  look  at.  The  queer  sensation  that  she  was  altogether 
superior  to  him  had  come  to  stay.  From  the  height  of 
her  superiority  she  felt  she  could  afford  to  be  a  little 
gracious  to  him. 

"No,  I'm  not  offended!  If  it  was  any  one  else, 
though " 

"You— you  mean  you  wouldn't  let  another  man  speak 
to  you?" 

"I've  never  let  another  man  speak  to  me "  she 

said.  "Some  have  tried,  only  I've  took  no  notice;  only 
somehow  I  don't  seem  to  mind  you  so  much!" 

His  face  flushed.  When  he  flushed  there  was  some- 
thing rather  appealing  about  him.  She  felt  she  liked 
him. 

"It's  just  that  I  am  lonely!     I  was  bred  up  in  the 

country — I  am  a  carpenter.     I  am  working  on  the  new 

buildings  at  the  corner  of  Hyde  Street ;  there's  a  heap 

of  others  there,  six  carpenters  beside  me.     Somehow  I 

18 


How  Enid  Found  Her  Lover 

don't  get  to  like  them,  and  they  don't  seem  to  care  about 
me — we  just  work  together  and  talk  a  bit  now  and 
again,  nothing  much.  Usually  they  talk  about  things 
I  don't  seem  to  care  about." 

"Same  with  me.    It's  the  same  with  the  girls  and " 

She  paused ;  she  did  not  mean  to  tell  him  anything.  Con- 
sidering he  was  a  stranger  she  was  going  too  far. 

"And  I — I  got  longing — longing  for  some  one  to  talk 
to,  some  one  as  I  could  understand  and  who  could  under- 
stand me.  Then  I  saw  you,  you  seemed — different " 

He  paused  nervously.  "Just  different  somehow.  I  won- 
dered if  you'd  mind  me  speaking — I  thought  you  would. 
Do  you  mind  me  walking  beside  you?" 

"I'm  going  'ome.  It  isn't  far;  I  don't  see  there's  no 
need  for  you  to  walk  with  me !" 

"I'm  sorry."  He  stood  still.  "I  won't  come  if  you 
don't  want  it."  The  pleading  was  still  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind,  then,"  she  said.  "Just  a  few 
steps !" 

He  walked  beside  her,  his  face  lighted  up,  he  looked  like 
a  man  who  had  been  vouchsafed  some  great  boon,  some 
great  blessing. 

"My  name  isn't  really  Woods,  that's  what  the  others 
think.  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  to  you,  but  you — I 
don't  want  to  tell  you  nothing  but  what's  true.  My  name's 
a  funny  one,  I  only  use  half  of  it;  once  I  had  an  idea 
of  using  the  other  half." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  directly. 

"Bevanwood !    It's  a  rum  name,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Bevanwood "  she  repeated.    "It's  a  funny  name !" 

"James  Curtis  Bevanwood,"  he  said.  "There's  a  rare 
lot  of  it,  ain't  there?  I'm  called  Jim  Woods,  it's  enough 

to  go  on  with,  and "    He  paused. 

19 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

She  knew  what  he  meant.  "My  name's  Foster,"  she 
said,  "E-nid  Foster — mostly  I  get  called  'Nid.  Enid's 
a  rum  name,  like  yours,  a  bit  outlandish." 

"I  like  it,"  he  said.  "I  like  it— it  sounds  jus'  right!" 
He  held  out  his  hand  shyly,  for  she  had  come  to  a  stand- 
still. "I'd  like  to  call  you  E-nid,"  he  said.  "May  I?" 

"I  don't  mind!"  she  laughed. 


20 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  JIM   WOODS  FOUGHT  FOR  HIS  GIRL 

E-NID !"  the  man  said  to  himself  when  the  shavings 
sang  through  his  jack-plane.  They  seemed  to  sing 
the  word,  the  name  to  him.  It  was  the  name  of  his  girl — 
"his  girl." 

He  had  built  his  possession  of  her  on  a  very  slight 
foundation.  He  had  only  spoken  to  her  last  night  for 
the  first  time,  perhaps  for  the  last,  but  in  his  heart  he 
called  her  "his  girl." 

"Consumption,  I  bet !"  a  man  said — it  was  Luke,  the 
big  carpenter,  the  bully  of  the  shed.  He  was  cutting 
mortices  in  a  window  frame  at  the  morticing  machine. 

"That's  what  she  looks  like  to  me,"  he  said  as  he 
brought  the  long  lever  down,  driving  the  sharp  chisel 
into  the  wood.  "A  sailer-faced,  yeller,  big-eyed  slip  of 
a  thing — ugly  as  sin !" 

Instinct  made  Jim  Woods  pause.     He  was  listening. 

"Nothing  to  look  at  and  nothing  more'n  a  kid  at  that, 
and  thought  he  was  doing  himself  proud,  I  bet !" 

Luke  paused,  some  one  else  laughed. 

"And  consumptive,  'oiler-chested  and  big-eyed.  I  know 
'er  sort,  she'll  start  coughing  presently ;  works  in  a  laun- 
dry, the  steam  and  all  the  rest  of  it ' 

They  were  talking  about  her !  The  man  stood  motion- 
less, quivering,  his  hands  gripping  the  jack-plane. 

"Well,  he's  got  a  sweetheart  at  last,  that's  something !" 

21 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Oh,  her  sort !"  Luke  said.  "The  sort  as  'ud  speak  to 
any  man  who  spoke  to  her  and  only  too  glad !" 

"Liar!" 

Luke  swung  round;  he  saw  a  man  whose  face  was 
white  and  whose  eyes  glinted  and  shone  savagely. 

"  'Oo  are  you "  he  began. 

"Liar,  dirty  'ound  and  liar!"  Jim  Woods  said. 

The  other  men  had  dropped  their  tools.  One  went  to 
the  door  to  see  if  the  foreman  was  about.  He  was  not ; 
they  looked  on  with  a  sense  of  enjoyment.  They  knew 
Luke;  he  was  a  huge  man — he  had  fought  in  the  ring 
once  or  twice  and  from  his  own  account  had  done  re- 
markably well. 

But  Woods — Woods  was  no  mean  man  either,  though 
"soft."  Somehow  they  had  it  in  their  heads  that  Woods 
was  "soft,"  perhaps  because  he  was  too  good-humoured 
to  take  offence  as  a  rule,  perhaps  because  he  had  no  love 
of  fighting  nor  of  strong  drink  nor  of  even  stronger 
language. 

"A  soft  chap,  Jim  Woods,"  they  said,  though  they 
were  inclined  to  like  him,  there  was  so  little  to  dislike 
about  the  man.  -But  the  man  they  knew,  the  "soft"  man, 
surely  this  was  not  he? 

His  face  was  white,  his  eyes  gleaming,  his  lips  tightly 
closed.  They  looked  at  him,  intending  to  laugh,  yet  for- 
got to  laugh  when  they  saw  his  face. 

Luke  was  rolling  the  dirty  sleeves  back  from  his  great 
hairy  arms.  His  lips  were  tightly  closed,  too,  his  eyes 
had  a  dangerous  glint  in  them. 

"You — you  said ?"  he  remarked  slowly. 

"That  you  was — a  dirty  liar!"  Woods  said,  and  his 
voice  sounded  hoarse  and  unnatural  even  to  himself. 

22 


How  Jim  Woods  Fought 

There  was  a  grim  smile  on  Luke's  face;  he  glanced 
about  him  to  see  that  all  was  clear. 

"Move  them  trussels !"  he  said,  and  spoke  as  naturally 
as  though  nothing  was  about  to  happen. 

One  of  the  men  pitched  the  sawing  trestles  aside,  and 
then  they  faced  one  another,  big  men  both,  Luke  a  shade 
the  bigger,  and  the  more  accustomed  fighter. 

There  was  not  another  man  in  the  shop  who  would 
have  stood  up  against  Luke,  not  another  man  who  would 
for  a  very  considerable  sum  have  taken  Woods'  place; 
but  Woods  himself  showed  no  signs  of  fear,  only  of  a 
grim  determination  and  a  deep,  passionate  anger. 

This  man  had  maligned  her,  had  said  she  was  "the 
sort  as  'ud  speak  to  any  man  who  spoke  to  her — and 
only  too  glad !"  The  liar,  the  liar ! 

"Half  a  moment,  mates!"  It  was  Stainer,  the  little 
old  carpenter  with  the  grizzled  hair.  "Woods,"  he  said, 
"Woods,  you'd  best  give  in !  You  won't  have  a  look  in 
with  Luke.  Give  in,  man,  and  say  as  you're  sorry  callin' 
Luke  names !"  He  had  a  liking  for  Woods,  he  wanted  to 
save  the  man  while  there  was  time. 

"Take  it  back  and  shake  'ands !"  he  quavered  in  his 
nervous  treble. 

Woods  laughed,  a  strange  laugh  for  Woods,  who 
usually  laughed  freely  and  merrily. 

"I — I  said  it — said  as  'e  was  a  liar  and  a  'ound,  and 

so  'e  is,  a  dirty  liar  and  worse "  His  eyes  glared, 

his  face  was  very  white. 

Naked  fists  with  the  knuckles  standing  out  white, 
brawny  arms  and  heaving  chests — most  of  the  men  here 
loved  a  fight,  yet  here  was  something  different — some- 
thing they  did  not  quite  understand.  A  drunken  brawl, 
two  men  aiming  ineffectual  blows  at  each  other  while 

23 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

their  arms  sawed  the  air,  thick  with  their  cursing,  they 
understood  fighting  of  that  kind — but  this!  Stainer 
turned  deliberately  away.  He  shuddered  at  the  sound 
of  fist  on  soft  flesh.  When  he  took  the  courage  to  look 
again  he  saw  that  both  were  bleeding,  and  that  under 
their  blood  their  faces  were  white  as  chalk. 

"Don't  let  'em,  don't  let  'em!"  he  said.  He  gripped 
at  the  arm  of  the  man  nearest  him,  but  the  other  man 
shook  him  off. 

"Leave  'em  alone,  they  mean  settling  it !"  he  muttered. 

They  did  mean  settling  it!  At  last  Luke  had  found  a 
man  worthy  of  him.  The  love  of  fighting  was  in  him, 
born  in  him,  it  was  the  breath  of  his  life.  Such  men 
as  he  have  turned  defeats  into  victories,  have  stayed  the 
rush  of  savage  foes,  have  offered  their  lives  in  the  serv- 
ice of  King  and  Country  with  a  smile  of  joy  on  their 
faces,  for  to  live  and  fight  and  to  die  fighting — what 
'better  can  man  ask  of  fate?  And  this  man's  eyes  were 
gleaming  with  a  great  and  pure  joy,  and  he  shook  his  big 
head  so  that  the  blood  was  flung  from  his  face  and  spat- 
tered on  to  the  benches  and  the  shaving-littered  floor. 

"You !"  he  gasped.  "You — you're  a  good  'un,  a  good 
'un !"  and  struck  out  with  all  his  might. 

Woods  flung  up  his  arms,  he  reeled  a  step  as  the  fist 
took  him  between  the  eyes.  He  saw  dazzling  lights  and 
leaping  flames  of  fire.  Then  he  was  down,  measuring 
his  length  on  the  earthen,  pine  shavings-covered  floor. 

"  'E's  down !"  Stainer  whispered.  "Thank  Gord,  it's 
over!" 

Over !  No,  it  was  not  over  yet ;  he  was  down,  he  lay 
there  for  how  long?  A  moment — two  perhaps,  but  that 
man,  the  man  who  was  standing  now  looking  down  at 
24 


How  Jim  Woods  Fought 

him  had  said:  "She  was  the  sort  who  would  speak  to 
any  man — that  sort!" 

He  came  back  to  life,  he  struggled  to  his  feet,  he  swayed 
a  little,  but  the  light  of  battle  still  burned  on  in  the  one 
eye  tnat  alone  was  of  service  to  him  now.  Yet  with 
that  eye  he  could  see  this  man,  his  enemy,  the  man  who 
had  traduced  her,  and  he  rushed  at  him  and  struck  and 
struck  again,  forcing  the  other  back  by  the  impetuous; 
fury  of  his  attack,  forcing  him  back  against  the  mortic- 
ing machine,  which  stayed  him  so  that  he  could  go  no 
farther ;  and  Luke,  fighter  though  he  was,  lost  his  head  for 
a  moment,  for  he  had  never  faced  an  attack  like  this, 
and,  losing  his  head,  he  left  himself  open  to  attack. 

Two  fists  battered  his  face,  his  head  jerked  back,  it 
struck  smartly  against  the  iron  arm  of  the  machine  and 
Luke's  senses  drifted  for  a  moment.  He  staggered  side- 
ways and  slipped,  and  as  he  slipped  Woods'  fist  took  him 
under  the  jaw,  and  Luke  went  down  with  his  head  on  the 
iron  foot-plate  of  the  machine. 

Another  man's  skull  might  have  cracked,  but  not 
Luke's.  Still  he  lay  there,  for  many  moments,  blinking  his 
eyes  slowly,  then  he  rose.  It  was  a  lengthy  process,  but 
it  was  done  at  last.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  wiped  the 
blood  from  his  face  with  a  handful  of  shavings.  Faint 
now,  but  unbeaten,  waiting  for  another  attack,  Jim  Woods 
leaned  against  his  bench. 

But  there  was  no  attack.  Luke  came  towards  him, 
strangely  uncertain  and  unsteady  on  his  feet. 

"You,"  he  said,  then  paused  to  spit  out  a  fragment 

of  broken  tooth.    "You're  a  fighter !    You  are "  again 

he  paused  and  put  his  big  finger  into  his  mouth  to  rake 
out  the  fragment  of  tooth.  He  found  it  and  looked  at 
it  with  a  smile  on  his  battered  countenance. 

25 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"A  fighter!"  he  repeated.  "You're  the  first  as  ever 
downed  me,  Woods !" 

Woods  said  nothing. 

"What  I  said  about  that  gel,"  Luke  said,  "I  didn't 
mean  you  to  'ear!" 

"But  I  'card,  and  it  was  a  lie !" 

Luke  nodded.  "That's  it,  a  lie!  I  didn't  know,  I 
jest  said  it  for  the  sake  of  saying  somethink — and  pr'aps 
I  was  wrong  about  the  other,  too,  'er  being  consumptive, 
I  mean;  I  'ope  as  I  was  wrong,  any'ow!" 

"It — it  wasn't  that — it  was  what  you  said  about  'er 
speakin'  to " 

"I  know,  I've  took  it  back,  I  didn't  'ave  no  reason 
to  say  it !  It  was  a  lie,  like  you  said !  Woods,  you're  a 
fighter,  you  are!  I  like  a  man  as  can  put  'is  fists  up! 
You  can !  I  should  think  that  gel  'ud  a  been  proud  of 
you  to-day  if  she'd  been  'ere  and  seen  you  fighting  for 
'er!" 

Jim  Woods'  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap.  He  felt  a  warm 
glow  in  his  breast — would  she,  would  she  if  she  had 
been  here?  Would  she  when  she  knew — be  proud  of 
him? 

Luke  held  out  his  hand.  "Mate,  I  take  it  all  back, 
every  blessed  word  of  it — she's  only  a  kid  as  yet,  that 
gel,  but  if  I  know  anything  she'll  make  a  beauty  one  of 
these  days!  You  ought  to  think  yourself  lucky  if  she's 
your  gel!" 

"She  is !"  Jim  said. 

"Then  you're  in  luck!"  Luke  said  generously.  "You 
are !  She'll  be  pretty  as  a  oil  painting  afore  she's  done !" 

Jim  Woods  smiled,  though  smiling  hurt  him  horribly. 
He  liked  Luke  as  he  had  never  liked  him  before.  If 
cutting  off  his  hand  would  have  been  of  the  slightest 
26 


How  Jim  Woods  Fought 

benefit  to  Luke  he  would  have  done  it  at  this  moment. 

"A  good  fighter!"  Luke  said.  He  paused,  he  looked 
about  on  the  bench  and  found  a  pair  of  pliers.  For 
some  moments  he  was  busy  with  the  pliers  in  his  enor- 
mous mouth.  At  last,  with  a  terrific  jerk,  he  succeeded. 
A  slow  smile  came  into  his  face  as  he  looked  at  the 
bleeding  stump  of  the  broken  tooth  held  in  the  pliers. 

"That's  better !"  he  said.  He  pitched  it  away  and  held 
out  his  hand  to  Jim  Woods. 

"I've  took  it  back,  Jim,"  he  said;  "me  and  you — 
friends?" 

Jim  nodded,  and  they  gripped  hands  tightly,  but  briefly. 

Then  the  others  came  to  him  with  their  congratula- 
tions. Jim  Woods  had  taken  on  a  new  importance  in 
their  eyes,  there  were  many  who  had  been  inclined  to 
look  down  on  him — but  never  again !  They  were  glad 
that  he  had  never  taken  umbrage  at  them — what  sort  of 
figures  would  they  have  made  in  such  a  combat? 

His  eye  smarted  and  was  painful,  so  were  the  bruises 
and  the  cut  lip,  but  he  seemed  to  feel  nothing.  He 
glowed  with  a  sense  of  exultation.  He  had  fought  for 
her;  a  knight  of  old  could  have  done  no  more.  He  had 
fought  and  bled  for  her,  and  surely  that  made  her  his 
girl! 

'Nid  took  herself  to  task.  She  ought  not  to  care; 
it  ought  not  to  matter  to  her  in  the  slightest  whether 
the  man  was  there  or  not.  Yet  it  did  matter — in  her 
lean  little  chest,  under  the  thin,  ragged  print  blouse,  her 
heart  was  pounding  rapidly. 

Love  him — the  idea  had  never  even  entered  her  head ! 
She  would  have  scorned  it.  Love — she  knew  nothing 
about  love,  it  was  something  the  other  girls  talked  about 

27 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

and  for  which  she  had  always  felt  a  kind  of  sneering  con- 
tempt. If  love  was  anything  like  what  these  girls  spoke 
of,  then  she  knew  she  would  never  love.  But  the  man 
had  spoken  to  her.  She  had  lied  when  she  had  told 
him  that  other  men  had  spoken  to  her.  No  man  ever 
had;  perhaps  she  was  not  attractive  enough,  perhaps  it 
was  because  she  did  not  give  them  encouragement.  But 
he  had  spoken  to  her,  and  henceforth  he  had  become  dif- 
ferent from  any  other  man  in  her  eyes. 

She  wondered  if  he  would  be  there — she  knew  he 
would,  something  told  her  he  would — and  what  then? 
They  would  talk  for  a  few  minutes,  then  part — and  then 
to-morrow  night. 

It  did  not  make  so  much  difference  in  her  life  after  all. 

Miss  Henderson  had  found  out  about  the  scorched 
frill. 

"You,  'Nid  Foster,"  she  said.  "If  Miss  Clare  kicks 
up  a  row  about  that  skirt,  you'll  have  to  pay,  my  girl,  and 
it'll  cost  you  ten  or  twelve  shillings  if  a  penny." 

She  did  not  know  who  'Miss  Clare  was,  nor  did  she 
care.  She  felt  that  she  hated  her.  Because  Miss  Clare 
objected,  or  would  object,  to  the  slight  stain  of  yellow 
on  the  hern  of  her  skirt  she,  'Nid  Foster,  must  forgo 
two- thirds  of  a  week's  money.  She  would  have  to  go 
hungry  next  week  through  Miss  Clare. 

The  fat  woman,  Mrs.  Melchor,  next  to  her,  was  panting. 
It  was  hotter  than  usual  to-day,  the  perspiration  was 
running  down  Mrs.  Melchor's  fat  cheeks  in  tiny  rivulets. 
She  paused  now  and  again  to  wipe  it  away.  Presently 
one  of  the  girls  screamed  out  suddenly.  She  had  burned 
her  arm  with  the  edge  of  a  hot  iron.  The  scream  ended 
with  an  oath.  Then  the  work  went  on. 

It  was  headache  time  now.  'Nid  looked  at  the  clock. 
28 


How  Jim  Woods  Fought 

Only  half  an  hour  more — would  he  be  there?  And  if  he 
were — what  then?  And  if  he  were  not — why  should 
she  care? 

A  funny  name  for  a  man — what  was  it?  Bevan- 
wood.  She  laughed  at  it.  Yes,  he  was  right  not  to  use 
it,  Woods  was  surely  enough. 

Time  at  last.  She  rushed  to  the  long  narrow  room  and 
fought  for  her  hat  and  coat.  She  was,  usually,  one  of 
the  first  out.  And  he  was  there. 

She  looked  at  him  and  her  face  turned  white,  she  felt 
sickened,  disgusted. 

"The— the  beast !"  she  muttered.  "The  horrible  beast, 
ugh!" 

She  never  wanted  to  speak  to  him  again,  never  wanted 
to  look  at  him  again.  She  walked  on,  she  heard  his  step 
behind  her;  then  she  turned,  her  sallow  little  face  was 
flushed,  her  big  eyes  sparkled. 

"Never,  never  speak  to  me  again,"  she  gasped.  "I — I 
hate  you,  I  think  you  are  horrible,  ugh !  I  won't  be  seen 
speaking  to  you ;  you  are — filthy !"  She  turned  away. 

"Enid,  won't " 

"Don't  you  dare  use  my  name!"  she  shrieked  at  him. 
"You — a  low,  common,  horrible  brute!"  She  glared  at 
his  disfigured  face,  his  blackened  eye,  his  cut  lip. 

"I — I  hate  such  men  as  you,"  she  said,  "hate  them." 
She  turned  her  thin  shoulders  on  him  and  walked  on, 
and  he  stood  there  looking  after  her. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  desolation,  of  vile 
injustice.  It  was  for  her,  because  of  her  he  had  received 
these  wounds — they  were  honourable  wounds. 

In  the  old  days  the  lady  would  have  crowned  her  bat- 
tered and  disfigured  and,  in  all  probability,  bleeding 
knight  with  a  wreath  of  something  or  other,  anyhow  a 

29 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

wreath — and  she — she  had  said  spiteful  words  to  him, 
had  turned  her  slender  back  on  him.  He  felt  angry, 
hurt. 

"Anyhow,  I  s'pose  I'm  not  much  to  look  at  at  the 
best    of    times,"    he    muttered.     "I    s'pose    most    girls 

wouldn't "     He  looked  after  her  trim  little  figure. 

"She's  done  with  me  now,  I  s'pose,"  he  thought.  He 
sighed  deeply.  It  was  a  romance,  his  first,  probably  his 
last,  and  it  was  gone  out  of  his  life — ended. 


CHAPTER  III 

ATONEMENT 

A  WEEK  had  passed,  a  week  of  days  just  the  same 
as  all  other  days.  Only  there  had  been  Sunday — 
Sunday  she  had  lain  in  bed  the  whole  day  long,  had 
stretched  her  limbs  and  shut  her  eyes  and  had  revelled 
in  the  luxury  of  complete  idleness.  Besides,  it  was 
cheaper  to  stay  in  bed,  one  meal  sufficed  for  the  whole 
day;  she  only  wanted  to  sleep. 

She  pitied  other  girls  who  dressed  themselves  up  in 
uncomfortable  clothes  and  went  for  dreary  walks  with 
uninteresting  young  men ;  for  her — bed. 

She  had  firmly  made  up  her  mind  never  to  speak  to 
Jim  Woods  again,  yet  the  night  after  their  parting  she 
had  glanced  across  the  road  just  to  see  if  he  were  there, 
and  he  was  not  there.  She  felt  a  little  chill  of  disap- 
pointment. She  was  conscious  of  tears  and  hated  her- 
self for  her  weakness. 

"Good  riddance,"  she  said  aloud,  but  she  did  not  mean 
it,  and  she  could  not  cheat  herself.  She  had  told  him 
to  go,  had  said  she  would  never  speak  to  him  again,  and 
he  had  taken  her  at  her  word.  All  men  were  fools,  he 
the  greatest  of  any.  But  he  had  looked  horrible — she 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  his  black  eye  and  swollen  lip. 

So  the  week  passed  and  he  came  no  more,  and  every 
evening  she  glanced  across  the  road  and,  seeing  no  one 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

there,  she  bit  her  lips  a  little  and  forced  the  tears  back, 
the  tears  that  would  come. 

It  would  have  been  nice  to  have  had  him  for  a  friend. 
She  had  no  friends,  she  spoke  to  no  one  except  Gert 
Rawlings,  and  that  not  much. 

He  had  come  into  her  life  and  had  gone  out  of  it 
again.  Somehow  it  made  life  just  a  little  more  lonely 
for  her  than  it  had  been  before,  just  a  little  more — if 
that  were  possible. 

This  morning  on  her  way  to  the  laundry  Gert  Rawlings 
caught  her  up. 

"You're  getting  proud,  ain't  you,  'Nid?"  she  said. 

"Me  proud  ?  I  ain't  got  much  to  be  proud  about,"  Enid 
said. 

"I  don't  know,  I'd  put  on  a  bit  of  side  if  chaps  got 
to  fighting  about  me." 

"Chaps?"  the  other  girl  asked. 

"Yes,  Alf — you  know  Alf — Alf  Young,  my  young 
man,  he's  working  in  the  carpenters'  shed  on  the  new 
building.  He  told  me  Woods — the  chap's  name  is  Jim 
Woods — Luke  Simmonds  was  saying  something  about 
you,  something  about — well,  I  don't  remember,  I  think 
it  was  about -you  speaking  to  any  chap  who  come  along, 
and  this  chap  Woods — 'Liar !'  he  says  to  Luke " 

'Nid  gripped  her  small  hands  tightly,  a  tense  look  came 
into  her  face. 

"  'Dirty  liar,'  he  says,  this  chap  Woods,"  Gert  Rawl- 
ings went  on. 

"And — and  it  was  about  me?"  'Nid  whispered. 

"About  you  all  right.    It  seems  Luke  and  some  of  'era 

see  that  cnap  Woods  speaking  to  you,  and  they  was 

laughing  about  it.     Luke,  he  says  you  was  the  sort  of 

girl  as  'ud  speak  to  any  man  who  spoke  to  her — though 

32 


Atonement 

•you  ain't,  'Nid,  I  know  that — and  then  this  feller  Woods, 
he  goes  up  to  Luke  with  clenched  fists  and  calls  him  liar!'' 
Gert  paused.  "Well,  they  fought  all  right!"  The  girl 
laughed.  "They  say  that  there  ain't  no  one  to  stand  up  to 
Luke,  only  this  feller  did — stood  up  to  him  for  ten  min- 
utes and  took  'is  punishment  like  a  man,  and  knocked 
Luke  out,  what's  more,  Alf  says.  So  you  see,  chaps  'as 
been  fighting  about  you.  Lor',  there  goes  the  blooming 
bell!" 

Fighting — fighting  about  her !  And  she  had  not  known. 
Fighting  for  her!  She  felt  something  swell  in  her 
breast — pride,  joy,  happiness.  Then  came  grief,  horror. 
After  he  had  fought  and  bled  for  her  she  had  insulted 
him,  called  him  filthy  and  foul,  and  turned  her  back  on 
him! 

"Oh,  what  does  he  think  of  me  ?"  she  moaned.  "What 
does  he  think  of  me?  He  done  it  for — for  me,  called 
that  Luke  a  liar  for  me — oh !"  She  looked  across  the 
road  to  the  spot  where  he  had  usually  waited;  he  was 
not  there.  Would  he  ever  be  there  again? 

"  'Nid  Foster,  you're  wanted !" 

It  was  not  usual  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon's  work. 

"•Me?"  'Nid  said. 

"Wanted — you  come  with  me!"  Miss  Henderson  said. 

"What's  the  trouble  ?"  'Nid  asked. 

"It's  Miss  Gare,  she's  come  about  that  there  petticoat, 
and  she  said  she'd  like  to  see  the  girl  what  spoiled  it." 

"What's  she  want  to  see  me  for  ?"  'Nid  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  you'd  better  ask  her,"  Miss  Henderson 
said. 

Miss  Gare  was  in  the  waiting-room ;  she  was  tall  and 
slender,  beautifully  dressed.  She  was  young,  not  more 
than  two  or  three  and  twenty,  and  she  was  distinctly 

33 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

and  obviously  very  beautiful,  with  raven-black  hair,  a 
white  colourless  skin  and  vivid  red  lips.  She  looked  at 
'Nid  and  'Nid  looked  at  her;  there  was  a  suggestion  of 
defiance  in  'Nid's  eyes. 

Miss  Clare  laughed.  "So  you  are  the — the  young  lady 
who  ruined  my  petticoat,"  she  said. 

"I'll  pay  for  it  if  I  did,"  'Nid  said. 

"I  am  afraid  you  would  find  it  expensive ;  do  you  know 
that  was  real  Valenciennes?" 

"I'll  pay,  anyhow,"  'Nid  said. 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  pay;  after  all,  the  scorched 
piece  can  be  carefully  taken  out." 

"Then  why  did  you  want  to  see  me?" 

"Merely  curiosity,"  Miss  Clare  said.  She  laughed  as 
she  spoke.  "I  was  curious  to  see  the  girl  who  washed 
my  clothes." 

"I  don't  wash  'em,  I  only  iron  'em,"  'Nid  said. 

"And  scorch  them,"  Miss  Clare  said. 

"I  suppose  you've  come  to  get  me  the  sack,"  'Nid  said. 

"I  have  come  for  no  such  thing,  and  I  don't  think  I 
quite  like  your  manners,"  Miss  Clare  said.  "I  really 
wanted  to  do  something  for  you,  I'd  have  liked  to  have 
helped  you." 

"I  don't  want  no  help." 

"If  you  don't  wish  to  speak  to  this  girl  any  more, 
Miss  Clare,  she  had  better  go  back  to  her  work,"  Miss 
Henderson  said. 

Miss  Clare  nodded.  "You're  a  funny  little  thing.  You 
almost  made  me  cross,  but  not  quite — see,  I'll  shake  hands 
with  you."  %She  held  out  a  very  delicately  gloved  hand. 

'Nid  glanced  at  it,  her  cheeks  burned  suddenly;  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  insult  in  the  other  woman,  patron- 
age. It  seemed  as  if  Miss  Clare  were  suggesting  that 
34 


Atonement 

she  was  descending  from  a  great  height  by  holding  out 
her  hand  to  a  common  laundry  girl. 

"I  don't  think,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  shake  'ands," 
'Nid  said.  "I — I  don't  shake  'ands — much."  She  turned 
and  went  out. 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Clare "  Miss  Henderson  began. 

"What  a  funny  little  soul,  and  how  beautiful!"  Miss 
Clare  said. 

"Bea — beautiful,  'Nid  Foster — her!"  Miss  Henderson 
gasped. 

"My  good  woman,  yes.  Where  are  your  eyes  ?  Eyes, 
I  say!  Haven't  you  seen  her  eyes?  They  are  the  sort 

of  eyes  a  man "  She  paused.  "And  her  mouth. 

She  is  only  a  child  yet,  wait — beautiful !"  She  laughed. 
"She  is  something  more,  she  is  extraordinary.  She's  got 
a  face  to  remember,  to  dream  about ;  those  eyes  and  that 
mouth  of  hers,  and — and  that  colouring,  the  expression ! 
You're  not  an  artist,  Miss  Henderson." 

"Me?  No;  I  run  a  laundry,"  Miss  Henderson  said. 

"As  for  beauty "  She  looked  at  Miss  Clare  with 

frank  admiration. 

"I'm  a  woman,"  Miss  Clare  said.  "But  even  though 
I  am  a  woman  I  can  see  beauty  in  other  women  and 
appreciate  it.  I  have  never  seen  a  girl  with  a  face  quite 

like  this  one's  before.  I  tell  you She  paused  and 

shrugged  her  shoulders ;  after  all,  why  waste  her  enthu- 
siasm on  this  log?  And  Miss  Henderson  was  a  log. 

"Don't  trouble  any  further  about  that  skirt,"  she  said. 
"It's  all  right,  but  I  am  glad  I  came.  I  am  glad  I  saw 
that  girl.  She  is  something  out  of  the  common,  and, 
remember  what  I  say,  beautiful !" 

Miss  Henderson  smiled.  So  long  as  Miss  Clare  did 
not  make  a  fuss  about  the  skirt,  that  was  the  main  thing. 

35 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

And  he  had  fought  and  bled  for  her,  and  she  had 
insulted  him.  'Nid's  heart  swelled.  Would  he  be  there 
to-night,  would  he?  He  was  not  there;  she  felt  a  sense 
of  sickening  disappointment.  No,  he  was  not  there, 
would  never  come  there  again.  She  would  never  see 
him  again,  and  she  wanted  to — wanted  to  tell  him  that 
she  was  sorry,  wanted  to  thank  him.  She  felt  a  great 
longing  to  humble  herself  to  him  somehow,  in  some  way 
— how,  she  did  not  know.  But  he  was  not  there,  and 
was  never  likely  to  come  again.  He  had  taken  her  dis- 
missal literally. 

She  went  home,  she  made  herself  tea,  boiling  the 
water  on  an  oil-stove  that  had  a  peculiar  smell  of  its 
own.  She  never  disliked  the  smell  of  the  oil-stove, 
it  was  so  different  from  the  smell  of  the  laundry.  It 
was  even  pleasant  as  a  change.  She  cut  two  slices 
of  thick  bread  and  butter  and  neglected  to  eat  them. 

She  would  never  see  him  again,  he  would  never 
come  back  to  her.  But  she  was  in  fault,  it  was  her 
duty  to  make  amends.  She  was  a  generous  little  soul 
at  heart;  realising  that  she  was  in  fault,  she  was  eager 
to  ask  pardon.  When  she  wished  to  atone  there  was 
no  limit  to  her  atonement,  no  lengths  to  which  she 
would  not  go  to  prove  her  contrition. 

If  he  demanded  it,  she  would  go  down  on  her  knees 
and  grovel  to  him.  Was  it  not  in  her  defence,  in  her 
honour,  that  he  had  acquired  that  blackened  eye,  that 
cut  lip,  that  puffed  and  swollen  face? 

She  could  not  rest  to-night;  she  did  not  know  where 
he  lived,  had  not  the  faintest  idea,  but  she  went  out. 
If  he  did  not  come  to  see  her,  then  she  must  go  and 
seek  him.  She  did  not  usually  go  out.  Sometimes  she 
read  a  little,  then  she  went  to  bed.  She  was  always  glad 
36 


Atonement 

to  go  to  bed,  to  ease  her  aching  legs  and  her  burning, 
tired  feet. 

She  went  out.  She  shuddered  a  little  as  men  passed 
her;  she  drew  back  to  avoid  them.  She  did  not  know 
which  way  to  go,  but  she  accepted  it  all  as  part  of  her 
atonement.  Much,  much  rather  would  she  have  been 
in  her  own  room,  lying  in  her  bed,  finishing  the  last 
chapter  of  the  book  Gert  Rawlings  had  lent  her.  But 
she  had  to  find  him. 

It  was  curious  that  she  did  find  him.  He  stood  outside 
the  door  of  a  picture  palace,  the  light  full  on  him.  He 
seemed  to  be  hesitating  whether  to  go  in  or  not.  Then 
she  touched  his  arm,  and  he  turned  and  looked  down 
at  her. 

"I — I've  been  looking  for  you,"  she  said. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"To — to  tell  you  I'm  sorry — very  sorry  and — and 
ashamed." 

"Why?"  he  said  again,  yet  his  face  lighted  up.  The 
puffiness  was  gone,  there  was  still  a  suggestion  of  alien 
colour  about  the  eye,  but  the  swollen  lip  was  not  notice- 
able. 

"I — I  was  told — some  one  told  me "  She  hesi- 
tated, a  burning  flush  came  into  her  face. 

"What  the  fight  was  about?" 

"Yes.  About  me.  I  know  how  it  was,  you — you 
stood  up  for  me,  and  I — I  turned  against  you.  I  hate 

myself "    Her  voice  thrilled  with  passion.    "It  wasn't 

fair." 

"No,  it  wasn't  fair,  was  it?"  he  said;  "but  then  you 
didn't  know." 

"And  I — I  want  you  to  know  I  am  sorry  and — and 
ashamed,  and  I'd  do  anything  to  prove  it." 

37 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Anything?"  he  said.  He  stooped  and  peered  into  her 
face.  She  flinched,  but  faced  him  bravely.  She  nodded. 

"Anything's  a  lot — a — a  great  deal."  He  gripped  her 
arm;  the  pain  almost  made  her  wince.  "Still,  I'll  test 
you,"  he  said.  "Will  you — marry  me — be  my  wife?" 

She  still  stared  at  him;  she  felt  as  if  the  solid  ground 
beneath  her  had  given  way  suddenly,  that  it  was  only 
his  grip  on  her  arm  that  was  holding  her  up. 

Still,  she  had  said  it,  and  she  never,  never  was  a  liar; 
she  had  said  "anything." 

"I  am  asking  too  much,"  he  said.  "I  thought  I  would, 
but  you  said  'anything.' " 

"And — and  I  mean  it,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  said  anything. 
I'll  marry  you  if  you  want  it,  I'll  be  your  wife." 

"You  mean  that?" 

She  nodded. 

She  knew  what  it  meant  to  her — it  meant  that  some- 
how all  her  dreams,  the  curious  fancies  that  had  been 
part  of  herself,  must  die  now.  Her  future  was  no 
longer  a  mysterious,  unknown  quantity,  a  dim  future  full 
of  vague  possibilities.  She  would  marry  him,  go  and 
live  in  some  small  cottage;  probably  later  she  would  go 
back  to  the  laundry  and  work  like  Mother  Melchor  and 
the  rest  did.  There  would  always  be  the  rent  to  pay, 
then  later  he  might  take  to  drink — most  men  did.  He 
might  hurt  her  and  knock  her  about.  The  wonderful, 
unreal  dreams  that  might  yet  have  come  true  must  end. 
She  had  said  "anything,"  and  he  had  taken  her  at  her 
word. 

Almost  unconsciously  she  let  him  draw  her  into  the 
picture  house;  they  sat  side  by  side  in  the  darkness. 

"  'Nid,"  he  whispered,  "would  you  tell  me  one  thing?" 

"Yes,  what  is  it?" 
38 


Atonement 

He  hesitated.  "I — I  mean — would  you "  He 

paused.  "It's  this,  you  don't  care,  you — I  mean  you 
don't  love  me,  do  you?" 

"No,"  she  said  simply. 

"And  yet  you'll  marry  me?" 

"I  said  so." 

"If  you'd  rather  not "  he  said. 

"I  said  I  would  and  I  will — I  said  I'd  do  anything," 
she  muttered  passionately.  "You — you  thought  you'd 
prove  me,  you  thought  I  wouldn't  do  as  I  said;  well, 
you  haven't  proved  me.  I'll  marry  you  when  you  like." 

Neither  looked  at  the  pictures.  Now  and  again  he 
muttered  to  her  some  confidence  about  his  wages,  his 
prospects,  something  the  foreman  had  said.  He  discussed 
their  future  home,  a  cottage  in  a  certain  street  he  knew  of. 

She  listened  without  enthusiasm.  She  was  realising 
that  in  some  way  she  had  cut  herself  off  from  the  future 
that  might  have  been.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  saw 
an  impossible  blue  sea  with  white  specks  on  it.  Still, 
she  could  never  understand  what  the  white  specks  meant. 
She  saw  an  equally  blue  sky  with  a  great  yellow  pillow 
of  a  cloud  suspended  in  it.  Not  for  her,  never  for  her. 
Only  some  cottage  in  one  of  these  back  streets,  toil,  rent 
day,  the  laundry  again  when  she  was  old  and  fat  like 
Mother  Melchor.  It  was  all  gone,  the  dreams;  but  the 
hunger  was  there  still,  the  hunger  for  the  vague,  un- 
known life  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  would  never 
know  anything  now. 

He  saw  her  home;  he  stood  outside  the  door  of  the 
lodging-house  where  she  lived;  he  held  her  thin,  bony 
hand  tightly  and  bent  to  her ;  he  kissed  her  on  the  cheek 
and  looked  eagerly  into  her  eyes.  He  prayed  inwardly, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  that  that  kiss  might  mean 

39 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

the  birth  of  love,  might  awaken  the  soul  in  her — but 
it  did  not. 

She  went  upstairs,  locked  the  door  of  her  room,  and 

threw  herself  down  on  the  bed.     She  felt  too  tired  to 

undress — she  ached  from  head  to  foot.     She  had  not 

lighted  the  candle,  and  she  lay  there  staring  into  the 

-darkness. 

"I've  missed  everything,"  she  said,  "everything !  I 
don't  know  what  I've  done  or  what  I've  missed.  Only 
it  seems  as  if  there's  nothing  left  now — nothing."  She 
flung  out  her  hands  with  a  sharp  cry  of  pain.  It  was 
like  the  cry  of  the  girl  when  she  had  burned  her  bare 
arm  with  the  hot  iron. 


40 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    NEW   HOME 

'*VTID  rose  early,  as  she  always  did.  There  was  a 
•i.  ^i  weight  on  her  mind,  a  sense  of  oppression.  Some- 
thing had  gone  wrong  with  her  life.  She  was  going  to  be 
married,  yes,  that  was  it. 

She  thought  of  Mrs.  Melchor  who  worked  next  to  her 
in  the  laundry.  Mrs.  Melchor  was  married.  She  was 
perhaps  forty,  and  she  looked  sixty.  She  was  worn  and 
harried,  life  was  hideous  to  her;  so  it  would  be  with  her 
presently.  Marriage  seemed  to  spoil  everything.  It  was 
hateful  to  be  married. 

The  man  himself  that  she  was  going  to  marry  played 
a  very  small  part  in  the  girl's  thoughts.  She  hardly  knew 
him,  she  did  not  know  if  she  liked  him.  She  thought 
not.  Last  night  he  had  kissed  her ;  she  rubbed  her  cheek 
vigorously  as  though  to  rub  away  the  taint,  the  re- 
membrance of  it. 

Deep  down  in  her  heart  was  a  world  of  romance, 
though  she  did  not  know  it.  She  had  read  nothing 
worth  reading,  she  knew  nothing  about  handsome  young 
princes  who  rescued  beggar  maidens  and  lifted  them 
up  to  share  their  thrones.  She  knew  nothing  of  this, 
yet  the  instinct  was  there.  She  felt  that  something  ought 
to  come  into  her  life  to  change  it  utterly.  But  as  it  was, 
she  would  simply  drift  into  marriage ;  in  a  little  time  she 
would  become  as  Mrs.  Melchor  and  the  others,  old,  ugly, 

41 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

worn  out  before  her  time,  shapeless  and  fat  perhaps, 
though  Heaven  knew  what  Mrs.  Melchor  got  fat  on. 

She  went  to  the  laundry  and  her  work ;  the  other  girls 
said  "Good-morning"  to  her. 

"Hello,  'Nid!"  Gertie  Rawlings  said,  "what's  up? 
You  look  as  if  you'd  lost  a  shilling  and  found  six- 
pence." 

She  kept  her  secret  to  herself — she  was  not  proud  of 
it.  She  expected  that  the  other  girls  would  laugh  at 
her  and  sneer.  Marry — she  was  very  young  to  marry, 
wasn't  she?  She  knew  nothing  about  marriage.  Her 
mother  had  been  dead  years ;  she  had  lived  alone  without 
companions  of  her  own  age.  She  never  listened  to  the 
light  talk  of  other  girls. 

Marriage  meant  nothing  to  her  except  a  kind  of  prison 
in  which,  pent  up,  she  would  grow  old  and  ugly  and 
tired  to  death  before  her  time. 

He  was  waiting  for  her  that  evening,  waiting  boldly. 
He  stepped  across  the  road  and  came  straight  to  her, 
unmindful  of  the  stares  and  the  giggling  of  the  others. 

There  was  an  air  of  possession  about  him,  his  honest 
face  glowed,  he  walked  with  his  head  held  high. 

This  was  his  girl  and  they  were  going  to  be  married 
soon.  Only  last  night  he  had  studied  his  Post  Office 
Savings  Bank  book,  and  the  catalogue  of  a  furnishing 
business. 

He  would  just  about  manage  it  without  getting  into 
debt.  He  told  'Nid  about  it,  but  she  was  not  inter- 
ested. 

"I'll  be  getting  a  rise  soon,"  he  said ;  "and  we'll  man- 
age finely,  E-nid." 

"Yes !"  she  said.    "And  me,  I  suppose  I'll  stay  at  the 
laundry?" 
42 


The  New  Home 

"You?  No,"  he  said;  "my  wife  won't  have  to  work 
for  her  living,  I'll  see  to  that." 

Not  at  first  perhaps;  but  later — oh,  yes,  she  was  sure 
to  have  to  come  back  later,  they  all  did. 

"Haven't  you  got  nobody  in  the  world,  'Nid?"  he 
asked. 

"Nobody,"  she  said. 

"Not  an  uncle  nor  an  aunt,  nor  anything?" 

"Nobody!" 

"More  have  I,  that  I  know  of — there's  some  rela- 
tions of  my  father  somewhere,  only  I  never  seen  them," 
he  said;  "and  they  never  seen  me,  so  we  won't  worry 
about  them.  I  expect  we'll  get  on  without  relations  all 
right." 

He  took  her  unresisting  hand  and  drew  it  through  his 
arm;  his  homely  face  glowed  with  pride  as  he  walked 
down  the  street  beside  her. 

"How'd  it  be  if  we  was  to  arrange  to  get  married  on 
your  seventeenth  birthday?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  said  wearily.  "It's  all  the  same 
to  me." 

They  went  to  a  picture  palace,  but  she  did  not  enjoy 
it  at  all.  He  insisted  on  holding  her  hand,  even  when 
the  lights  were  turned  up.  Something,  she  did  not  know 
what  it  was,  prevented  her  from  drawing  it  away. 

"  'Nid,  I've  seen  a  little  house,  just  the  place  for  us ; 
it's  in  Pent  Street,"  he  said.  "It's  only  six  and  six,  and 
they  are  willing  to  do  it  all  up  new." 

"Oh !"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it  ?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"I  daresay  it'll  do  as  well  as  any  other,"  she  said. 

"But  you  ought  to  have  some  say  in  it,  'Nid,"  he 
said. 

43 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"I  don't  mind — you  know  best;  we  got  to  live  some- 
where, I  suppose,"  she  said  wearily. 

He  met  her  again  the  next  night  and  the  next.  The 
other  girls  chaffed  her  about  it. 

'Nid  Foster  had  a  young  man  at  last.  No  one  en- 
vied her  her  young  man — he  was  homely  and  plain. 
"Not  my  style,"  they  said ;  "and  manners ;  he  don't  even 
take  his  'at  off  when  he  sees  her :  look  at  Alf  and  Bert, 
they've  got  manners  if  you  like !" 

It  was  not  until  two  weeks  later  that  it  leaked  out  that 
'Nid  was  going  to  be  married. 

The  girls  accepted  it  as  a  kind  of  joke ;  Mrs.  Melchor 
sniffed. 

"A  kid  like  'er!"  she  said;  "why,  she  ain't  seventeen 
yet.  Married — if  she  knew  as  much  about  it  as  I  did !" 
She  sniffed  again — "I  'ate  the  sight  of  men,  I  do.  I 

was  'appy  when  I  was  a  gel;  now "  She  thumped 

her  iron  down  on  the  ironing  board.  "I  'ate  the  very 
sight  of  men,"  she  repeated.  "Beer  and  grub  and  grub 
and  beer,  that's  all  they  think  of." 

Gertie  Rawlings  questioned  her. 

"I  s'pose  you've  fell  in  love  with  'im.  'Nid,  though 
what  you  see  in  'im  I  don't  know,  nor  does  any  of  the 
others.  Of  course  he  ain't  bad,  and  he  seems  quiet  and 
sober  enough;  but — any'ow,  there's  no  accounting  for 
love." 

"I  don't  love  5im,"  'Nid  said  angrily,  "I  don't  love 
nobody,  Gert." 

"Then  wJiat  are  you  marrying  'im  for?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  girl  said. 

"But  there's  got  to  be  some  reason." 

"Well,  he  asked  me.  I  didn't  treat  him  fair  and  I 
44 


The  New  Home 

said  I'd  make  it  up  and  do  anything  he  liked,  so  he  said, 
'marry  me/  and  I  promised." 

Gert  laughed. 

"Well,  you're  a  rum  one,  you  are,  'Nid,"  she  said. 
"And  so  you're  going  to  marry  'im  just  because  'e  wants 
it  and  not  because  you  do." 

"That's  it,"  'Nid  said  shortly.     She  turned  away. 

"You  might  'ave  picked  a  chap  with  some  looks  and 
manners,  any'ow,"  Gert  called  after  her. 

"Pick !"  She  had  not  picked  at  all ;  the  man  had  picked 
her.  She  did  not  want  to  marry  him  nor  any  one  else, 
but  the  thought  never  came  to  her  to  cry  off,  to  beg  Jim 
Woods  to  release  her.  She  had  promised,  and  instinc- 
tively she  regarded  her  promise  as  sacred.  Besides,  she 
had  ill-treated  and  misjudged  him,  and  owed  him  repara- 
tion. So  it  must  go  on,  of  course. 

And  now  the  time  was  getting  very  short.  The  banns 
had  been  published  in  church.  'Nid  had  insisted  on  being 
married  in  church — her  mother  had  been  married  in 
church. 

"I  don't  hold  with  registry  offices,"  she  said. 

Nor  did  he ;  in  his  heart  he  thought  it  more  fitting  that 
they  should  be  married  in  church.  And  in  a  week's  time 
they  would  be  man  and  wife.  He  was  waiting  for  her 
to-night  with  the  light  of  a  great  eagerness  in  his  face. 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  and  then  tucked  it  into 
his  arm. 

"  'Nid,"  he  said,  "I  got  something  to  tell  you." 

"Well?" 

"We'll  go  and  'ave  a  bit  of  tea  at  Menker's,"  he  said, 
"round  the  corner;  after  that "  He  paused. 

She  walked  on;  she  was  not  impressed  by  his  excite- 
ment. Outside  Menker's  there  was  a  large  hoarding,  on 

45 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

the  hoarding  were  advertisements.  .One  caught  her  eye; 
it  was  a  railway  company's  advertisement  advertising  a 
cheap  trip  to  a  well-known  seaside  place.  There  was 
a  view  of  the  place,  the  usual  blue  sky  and  the  blue  sea. 

"A  reg'lar  Rickett's  blue,"  she  thought  as  she  stared 
at  it.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  landscape  in  brilliant 
yellows,  browns  and  greens.  She  stood  staring  at  it — it 
held  her  eyes.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  glorious  sun- 
shine* about  it,  crude  as  it  was.  She  felt  something  move 
within  her,  a  desire,  yearning,  hunger  for  something — 
something  that  she  had  repressed  for  so  long  now. 

"Come  on,  *Nid,"  he  said;  "what  are  you  staring  at?" 

"What's  them  white  spots  they  always  put  on  the 
sea  ?"  she  asked. 

"That  ?"  he  said— he  looked  at  the  pictures.  "Oh,  that's 
foam,  I  s'pose." 

"Foam,"  she  said;  "you  mean  like  suds?" 

He  nodded.  "Something  like  that ;  it's  when  the  waves 
break  the  top  turns  white  like  suds." 

"I  often  wondered,"  she  said.  She  turned  into  the 
shop,  but  took  one  glance  back  at  the  picture. 

Sea,  sunshine,  colour — a  riot  of  colour.  She  was 
panting  a  little  as  if  she  had  run  far ;  that  was  what  she 
wanted — sea  and  sunshine  and  colour,  the  breath  of  flow- 
ers, brightness,  glitter,  some  other  life,  a  life  that  she 
had  never  known.  And  yet,  curiously  enough,  she  had 
some  vague  sense  of  remembering  that  other  life. 

She  had  never  seen  the  sea  in  her  life,  yet  she  felt  that 
she  knew  what  it  was  like. 

N"Jim,"  she  said,  "if  you  was  to  dip  a  cup  into  the  sea 
and  fetch  out  some  water,  would  it  look  blue  inside  the 
cup,  just  like  the  blue  we  puts  the  clothes  in?" 

He  laughed.    "No,  it  wouldn't.    It  isn't  naturally  blue 
46 


The  New  Home 

at  all,  it's  just  clear  like  water  in  that  bottle;  it's  the 

blue  sky  as  makes  the  sea  look  blue — reflection "  He 

paused.     "  'Nid,   I've  got  something  to  show  you  to- 
night  " 

"What's  that  ?"    She  spoke  without  curiosity. 

"It's  that  little  home;  I  took  it  and  it's  been  done  up. 
I  got  the  furniture  all  ready;  rent  starts  from  to-day: 
it's  mine — ours  now." 

She  did  not  feel  elated.  She  knew  Pent  Street — she 
had  to  pass  through  Pent  Street  twice  every  day  of  her 
life.  It  was  a  mean,  narrow,  unlovely  thoroughfare  like 
most  other  streets  in  the  neighbourhood. 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  see  it  this  evenin',  'Nid,"  he 
said.  "It's  all  ready,  just  as  it'll  look  on  our  wedding- 
day  when  I  take  you  home." 

"I'll  come!"  she  said. 

She  paid  for  her  own  tea — on  that  she  always  insisted. 
Whenever  she  went  with  him  to  a  picture  palace  or  had 
a  meal,  as  now,  she  paid  for  herself.  He  remonstrated 
at  first  and  then  gave  way.  He  had  asked  one  of  the 
men  at  the  carpenter's  shed  how  he  managed  when  he 
went  out  with  his  girl. 

"Do  you  pay,  or  does  she  ?"  he  asked. 

"Her  pay !" — the  man  laughed.  "I'd  like  to  see  her ; 
not  she !  No  girl  ever  pays  for  herself  when  a  chap 
cakes  her  out." 

But  'Nid  did — 'Nid  was  different;  somehow  he  felt 
pleased  to  think  that  'Nid  was  different  from  other  girls. 

Coming  out  'Nid  took  another  long,  lingering  glance 
at  the  railway  poster. 

"I  often  wondered  what  them  white  marks  were," 
she  muttered ;  "now  I  know — it's  suds." 

47 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

It  was  not  far  to  Pent  Street;  they  walked  quickly 
because  he  was  eager  and  enthusiastic. 

He  felt  proud  of  the  new  home — it  represented  the 
spending  of  some  years  of  savings.  He  was  glad  to 
think  that  he  never  drank  and  only  smoked  a  very  little. 
If  he  had  drunk  and  smoked  a  great  deal  he  would  not 
have  saved  the  money. 

"This  is  it,"  he  said;  and  his  voice  shook  with  pride. 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  house;  there  was  not  much 
of  it  to  look  at — a  door  newly  painted  brilliant  green, 
but  with  the  old  paint,  blistered  and  scarred,  left  under. 
There  was  one  window  to  the  right  of  the  door,  two 
windows  above — that  was  all. 

He  opened  the  door  with  his  key  and  they  went  in. 

The  door  opened  into  a  sitting-room — a  box  of  a  room. 
He  had  purchased  what  was  catalogued  as  a  "dining- 
room  suite  in  saddlebag."  It  already  looked  a  little  dusty  ; 
there  were  four  small  chairs,  two  armchairs  and  a  couch. 
They  more  than  filled  the  room — to  get  round  the  table 
one  had  to  edge  sideways. 

Two  of  the  chairs  were  already  showing  signs  of  col- 
lapse, their  back  legs  unsteady.  The  man  who  had 
moved  the  things  had  told  Jim  in  confidence  how  the 
rolls  on  the  arms  of  the  armchairs  and  the  back  of  the 
couch  were  made. 

"You  take  empty  ginger  beer  bottles,"  he  said,  "and 
roll  them  round  with  rags — that's  the  foundation.  The 
rest  of  it's  mostly  seaweed." 

He  looked  at  her  now,  eagerly  and  expectantly.  He 
half  expected  her  to  break  out  into  little  cries  of  rapture. 
But  she  diet  not. 

"It  looks  too  full,  somehow,  don't  it?     There's  too 
many  things."    Which  showed  her  good  sense. 
48 


The  New  Home 

"It'll  be  all  right  when  you  get  used  to  it,  'Nid;  be- 
sides, we  could  shove  some  of  the  chairs  into  the  back 
room  as  it  won't  be  wanted." 

They  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  she  nodded. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said  unenthusiastically.  "Only 
them  tin  saucepans  won't  last  long;  you  ought  to  have 
got  iron." 

"I  didn't  know,"  he  said  heavily.  "I  daresay  we'll 
pick  up  an  iron  saucepan  or  two." 

He  led  the  way  up  the  narrow  stairs  to  the  bedroom. 

'Nid  looked  about  her.  The  room  faced  the  street; 
the  painted  chest  of  drawers  and  the  washstand  were  neat 
and  clean.  There  was  a  rug  beside  the  bed  on  the  floor ; 
the  bed  itself  looked  large,  she  thought — she  said  so. 

"But — it's  the  right  size,"  he  said;  "I  asked  and " 

'Nid  nodded.  "What's  this  to  be — your  room  or 
mine?"  she  asked. 

He  started,  he  turned  red,  he  looked  at  her;  her  face 
was  utterly  unconscious. 

"Yours,  I  expect,"  she  said  slowly.    "The  bed's  so  big." 

Jim  did  not  answer ;  he  walked  to  the  window  and  stood 
staring  out  into  Pent  Street. 

A  child  after  all,  only  a  child,  not  yet  seventeen !  He 
did  not  look  at  her — he  stared  into  Pent  Street. 

"It's  yours,"  he  said;  "any — any  old  shake-down'll  do 
for  me.  I  thought  of  fitting  up  that  there  empty  back 
room — it'll  do  for  me  all  right,  'Nid." 

"Them  things  in  my  rooms  belong  to  me,"  she  said; 
"I  could  have  'em  moved  here.  The  back  room  'ud  do 
for  me  then  with  my  own  things — somehow  it  'ud  seem 
a  bit  'omelike." 

"Just  as  you  like,"  he  said  briefly. 


49 


CHAPTER  V 
"POOR  LITTLE  KID!" 

THEY  were  married.  'Nid's  eyes  roamed  about  the 
church.  The  service  seemed  interminably  long  to 
her.  She  hardly  listened  to  it.  At  one  point  Jim  put  a 
ring  on  her  finger ;  she  looked  at  it  and  twisted  it  about. 

"Jim,  that  ain't  gold,  not  real  gold?"  she  asked  him 
afterwards. 

He  shoofc  his  head.  "No,  the  things  cost  so  much, 
'Nid.  One  day  I'll  give  you  a  real  gold  one;  they  called 
this  rolled  gold — that's  another  name  for  brass,  I  s'pose. 
But  I'll  give  you  another  one,  a  real  gold  one,  one  day." 

"It  don't  matter,  it  don't  make  no  difference,  I  sup- 
pose," she  said. 

Yesterday  she  had  left  the  Snowflake  Laundry.  One 
day  she  would  go  back,  she  was  sure  of  that.  Every 
one  went  back.  Mrs.  Melchor  and  Mrs.  Nichols  and  Mrs. 
Marken — they  were  married  and  they  had  gone  back,  so 
would  she  one  day.  Some  of  the  girls  kissed  her  when 
they  said  good-bye ;  they  had  never  kissed  her  before. 

Gert  Rawlings  hugged  her  tightly.  "Good  luck,  dearie !" 
she  said.  "I  daresay  he's  all  right,  even  if  he  ain't  much 
to  look  at.  Very  likely  it's  the  plain  ones  as  make  the 
best  husbands.  Anyway,  he's  not  one  for  the  beershops. 
Alf  told  me  that,  and  that's  somethink,  goodness  knows." 

So  she  had  left.  This  morning  early  she  had  seen  her 
goods  and  chattels  removed  to  the  little  house  in  Pent 
50 


"Poor  Little  Kid!" 

Street.  She  had  arranged  her  own  room.  She  had  with 
her  own  money,  her  last  wages,  laid  in  a  small  stock  of 
provisions — bread,  butter,  bacon,  yellow  soap,  soda, 
matches,  and  a  pound  of  steak.  She  was  not  sure  but 
that  she  ought  to  have  ordered  two  pounds;  she  under- 
stood that  men  ate  a  great  deal. 

And  now  they  were  married  and  were  going  home  to- 
gether. Jim  was  silent ;  now  and  again  he  looked  at  her. 

"I  didn't  wish  you  many  'appy  returns  of  the  day, 
'Nid,"  he  said. 

She  laughed.  "Of  my  birthday,  or  wedding-day,  Jim?" 
she  said. 

"Birthday,"  he  said  briefly. 

Now  he  sat  in  the  little  kitchen  and  watched  her.  He 
too  had  the  day  off.  She  was  cooking  the  steak  over  the 
oil-stove,  her  own;  the  smell  of  it  reminded  her  of  her 
rooms,  her  home,  the  only  one  she  had  known. 

Watching  her,  he  began  to  find  time  hanging  heavily 
on  his  hands;  the  long,  long  afternoon  and  evening  lay 
before  them.  He  almost  wished  himself  back  in  the 
carpenters'  shop.  The  girl  was  thinking  of  the  work  at 
the  "Snowflake."  It  seemed  so  wonderful  that  she  was 
not  there,  and  would  not  be  there  to-morrow,  nor  the 
next  day,  nor  the  next — wonderful. 

'Nid  made  gravy — she  poured  some  water  into  the 
frying-pan  in  which  the  steak  had  been  cooked  and  let 
it  frizzle  on  the  stove,  then  she  poured  some  over  his 
share  and  some  over  her  own. 

"You're  a  cook;  I  never  see  that  trick  before,"  he 
said;  "you  are  cleverer  than  I  thought,  'Nid — in  some 
things,"  he  added  slowly. 

They  both  tried  to  spin  out  the  meal  as  much  as  possi- 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

ble.    They  wondered  what  they  should  do  when  it  was 
over.    It  was  barely  half-past  one  yet. 

They  could  not  make  it  last  longer  than  ten  minutes  past 
two,  even  though  he  broke  up  bread  in  small  pieces  and 
sopped  his  gravy  with  it  and  lingered  over  the  operation. 
'Nid  got  up  and  put  a  kettle  on  to  boil  on  the  oil-stove. 

"For  washing  up,"  she  said. 

"Mind  me  smoking,  'Nid?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "All  the  same  if  I  did,"  she  said ; 
"only  I  don't." 

"I  don't  smoke  in  the  daytime  as  a  rule,  only  to-day's 
different."  He  sat  and  smoked  his  pipe. 

Half-past  two — what  a  day !  Would  it  never  end  ?  He 
fidgeted  a  little. 

"I — I've  been  thinking  if  I  popped  out — there's  some  of 
my  tools  I  might  get  and  bring  back  and  put  on  the 
oilstone,"  he  said.  "It  'ud  be  something  to  do." 

"All  right,"  she  said;  she  did  not  turn  her  head  as 
she  washed  up  in  the  sink. 

Jim  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief  as  he  stepped  out  into 
Pent  Street. 

"Clever  and  pretty,"  he  muttered;  "knows  a  deal, 
wonderful  what  she  knows — and — and  don't  know." 

He  walked  to  the  carpenters'  shed  and  stood  looking 
at  the  others  working. 

One  man  looked  up.  "Hello,  Woods!"  he  said.  "I 
see  you  with  a  bit  of  a  girl  this  morning;  who's  she?" 

"Oh,  her "  Jim  said.    He  paused. 

"Your  girl,  or  'ave  you  adopted  'er  or  what  ?"  the  other 
man  asked. 

Jim  smiled  'slowly.  "That's  it,  I  fancy,  ad-opted  her," 
he  said. 

"Looks  about  fifteen,"  the  man  said. 
52 


"Poor  Little  Kid!" 

"Seventeen  to-day — it's  'er  birthday." 

"Oh,  I  s'pose  you  was  taking  her  out  to  give  'er  a  treat. 
This  bit  o'  timber's  got  a  shake  in  it  from  end  to  end,"  he 
added. 

Jim  hung  about  the  shed  till  nearly  five,  then  he  went 
home.  The  long  evening  was  before  them — at  any  rate 
there  were  the  picture  palaces,  but  that  would  be  an  ex- 
pense if  they  had  to  go  there  every  night;  still  to-night 
was  their  wedding-day. 

She  had  tea  ready ;  it  looked  comfortable  and  cosy — he 
began  to  doubt  about  the  picture  palace  after  all.  But 
after  tea  she  turned  to  the  sink.  "That's  the  worst  of 
meals,  there's  always  washing  up !"  she  said.  She  yawned 
a  little  wearily. 

"How  about  the  pictures,  'Nid?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  like " 

They  went  out ;  he  wanted  her  to  take  his  arm,  but  she 
would  not. 

"Just  as  if  I  can't  walk  alone,"  she  said. 

"Anyway,  I  can  pay  for  you  now,"  he  said  with  a 
note  of  triumph  in  his  voice. 

"I  suppose  so,"  the  girl  said.  "I  shan't  be  earning 
nothing  now." 

The  little  house  looked  dark  and  rather  lonely  when 
they  got  back.  Jim  lighted  the  lamp. 

"Tired?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  "Dead  tired ;  it's  been  a  long  day,  I  think 
I'll  get  off."  She  paused.  "Good-night,  Jim." 

He  got  up  and  went  to  her.  "Good-night,  'Nid,"  he 
said.  "Ain't  you  going  to  kiss  me?" 

"I  s'pose  so,"  she  said  wearily.  She  held  up  her  face ; 
he  kissed  her  cheek. 

53 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Good-night,  Kid,"  he  said.  "That's  what  I  think  I'll 
call  you  in  future — Kid." 

She  laughed.    "Good-night,  Jim." 

He  went  back  and  sat  down  on  the  new  Windsor  chair 
and  stared  at  the  lighted  lamp,  but  he  did  not  notice  that 
the  wick  was  turned  too  high  and  that  the  smoke  was 
making  a  black  patch  on  the  ceiling. 

"Funny  thing,  life,"  he  muttered. 

"I  don't  know  that  Mason  weren't  right — a-dopted, 
that's  the  word,"  he  laughed  softly.  "Poor  little  kid!" 
he  said. 

He  sat  there  for  an  hour,  then  rose.  He  turned  out 
the  lamp  and  went  upstairs;  outside  her  door  he  paused 
and  listened.  The  door  was  ajar ;  he  could  hear  her  regu- 
lar, soft  breathing — she  was  fast  asleep.  He  went  into 
his  own  room. 

"Dead  tired,"  he  muttered.  "And  it's  latish.  I've  got 
to  be  at  the  works  at  six  in  the  morning." 


54 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   PASSING   OF    SIR    HAROLD 

THE  doctor's  face  was  very  grave  as  he  came  into 
the  morning-room ;  the  girl  rose  eagerly  to  greet  him. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  afraid,  'Miss  Clare,  there  is  absolutely  no  hope, 
the  desire  to  live  is  gone.  It  is  the  shock,  the  terrible 
shock.  Think  of  it,  the  two — both  of  them  so  young,  so 
full  of  life,  so  promising,  the  beginning  and  the  ending 
of  all  things  to  him.  The  awful  shock  of  it — one  can 

understand,  poor  old  fellow — poor  old  man "  He 

paused. 

"Then  you  do  not  think  that  Sir  Harold  can  possibly 
live?"  the  girl  asked. 

"He  will  not  live ;  he  will  die  because  he  wishes  to  die. 
He  was  never  a  strong  man;  he  lived  in  his  children. 
They  have  both  been  taken  from  him — the  blow  is  more 
than  he  can  bear.  He  wishes  to  die — he  told  me  so  with 
his  own  lips — and  he  will." 

The  girl  moved  across  the  pleasant,  old-fashioned 
room;  she  looked  out  into  a  garden,  a  garden  gorgeous 
with  flowers.  Standing  there  in  the  window  embrasure 
she  could  see  the  old  clipped  yew  walk  that  was  one  of 
the  glories  of  Bevanwood.  The  Sussex  guide  book  had 
it  that  this  clipped  yew  walk  at  Bevanwood  was  one  of 
the  finest  and  most  complete  in  existence. 

The  same  guide  book  also  had  it  that  "Bevanwood,  the 

55 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

seat  of  Sir  Harold  Bevanwood,  Bart.,  was  commenced  in 
the  reign  of  Mary  by  Sir  Walter  Bevanwood,  who  was 
responsible  for  the  main  building  and  the  west  wing.  The 
east  wing,  however,  was  completed  by  Sir  Ambrose 
Bevanwood  in  the  reign  of  James  the  First.  Visitors  are 
admitted  on  certain  days  on  presentation  of  their  cards, 
and  particular  attention  is  drawn  to  the  admirable  ex- 
amples of  Sir  Peter  Lely  and  Van  Dyck  in  the  long  cor- 
ridor, the  Hogarths,  Gainsboroughs,  Raeburns  arid 
Reynolds  in  the  picture  gallery  in  the  west  wing,  also 
the  fine  Dutch  collection,  including  a  superb  Matsys,  be- 
lieved to  be  the  best  example  of  this  master,  equalling 
even  that  at  present  in  Windsor  Castle ;  this  and  others 
are  to  be  seen  in  the  large  dining-hall." 

There"  was  much  other  interesting  information  in  the 
guide.  The  girl  stared  out  across  the  garden;  the  doc- 
tor was  drawing  his  gloves  on  slowly,  gazing  at  her 
slender  back  with  a  curious  smile  on  his  face. 

"Oh,  there's  Geoffrey!"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Your  brother?" 

"Yes,  I  sent  him  a  wire  last  night ;  he  has  lost  no  time 
in  coming — I  told  him  about  poor  Hugh  and  Ralph,  and 
— and  uncle — poor  uncle,  it  is  a  blow  to  us  all." 

"Of  course."  The  doctor  paused.  "You  call  Sir 
Harold  uncle,  but " 

"No,  he  is  not  our  uncle  really;  we  are  distantly  re- 
lated, very  distantly,  I  believe.  Yet  it  seems  that  after 
all  we  are  now  the  nearest,  practically  the  only  relatives 
he  had." 

"Then  the»young  gentleman  coming  up  the  drive  at 
this  moment  will  in  all  probability  be  master  of  these 
broad  acres  ere  long?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Yes."  A  flush  came  into  her  cheeks. 
56 


The  Passing  of  Sir  Harold 

"It  must  be  so.  The  property  is  all  strictly  entailed;  I 
don't  think  there  is  another  living  relative  excepting 
Geoffrey  and  myself." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Clare." 

She  started  and  turned  suddenly.  A  man  stood  in  the 
doorway,  thin,  dapper,  clad  in  black,  the  very  type  of  the 
legal  practitioner. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you  and  for,  I 
am  afraid,  dashing  your  hopes  a  little — possibly  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  you  must  not  forget  that  there  was  James 
Bevanwood,  James  Curtis  Bevanwood,  your  uncle's 
younger  brother " 

"He  is  dead  many  years " 

Mr.  Aswell  nodded.  "Possibly,  possibly.  Yet  he  may 
have  married  and  left  an  heir;  that  we  must  discover. 
As  you  say,  the  estates  are  strictly  entailed  and " 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door,  a  nurse  stood  there. 
She  beckoned  anxiously  to  the  doctor,  he  turned  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

"I  was  saying,"  Mr.  Aswell  said,  "we  must  satisfy 
ourselves  that  James  Curtis  Bevanwood  left  no  direct 
heir;  if  not,  then,  of  course Again  he  was  in- 
terrupted, this  time  by  a  young  man,  a  very  good-looking 
young  man.  He  was  tall,  slender,  exquisitely  dressed,  a 
young  man  with  fair  curling  hair  that  he  wore  a  shade 
too  long.  He  also  wore  a  large  silk  bow  for  a  tie  in 
the  manner  of  the  Quartier  Latin.  His  hands  were  beau- 
tifully soft,  white  and  delicate.  His  voice  matched  his 
hands  exactly,  as  did  his  eyes,  wonderful  blue  eyes  for 
a  man. 

"I  had  your  wire,  Sheila,"  he  said.  "I  came  at 

once "  He  spoke  softly,  in  a  dreamy  voice.  "Poor 

uncle,  poor  Hugh,  poor  Ralph!  How  truly  shocking!" 

57 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

The  keen  little  lawyer  looked  at  him ;  there  was  a  lack 
of  warmth,  of  sincerity  about  the  young  man,  and  his 
hard  eyes  took  it  in. 

"It  was  thoughtful  of  you  to  wire  me,  Sheila;  of 
course  I  came  at  once.  I  even  put  Lady  Alice  off.  The 

'sitting  was  to  have  been  this  morning "  He  sighed. 

"Death,"  he  said;  "it  is  very  terrible."  His  eyes 
wandered  round  the  room.  They  seemed  to  be  taking  in 
and  appraising  every  article  it  held.  There  was  that 
about  him  which  said — "This  and  all  else  will  soon  be 
mine,  but  for  decency's  sake  I  must  not  exult  openly." 

And  the  little  lawyer,  keen  eyed  as  a  ferret,  watched 
him  and  understood.  Yes,  he  took  it  all  in. 

"The — the  news  was  so  sudden,  so  terribly  unex- 
pected, such  a  shock,"  Miss  Clare  said. 

"A  feahful  blow "  he  said,  "feah-ful."  For  which 

the  lawyer  hated  him. 

"And  how — how  is  the  poor  old  fellow?"  Geoffrey 
Clare  asked. 

The  door  opened,  the  doctor  had  come  in.  He  glanced 
at  the  newcomer. 

"You  were  asking,"  he  said,  "how  my  patient  is.  Miss 
Clare — it  is  my  melancholy  duty  to  tell  you  and  this 
gentleman,  your  brother,  that  Sir  Harold  Bevanwood  has 
passed  away." 


CHAPTER  VII 
"THE  THING  OF  HER  DREAMS" 

SIX  weeks  had  made  a  wonderful  difference.  Miss 
Henderson,  meeting  Enid  in  the  street  one  day, 
stared  at  her  with  almost  unbelieving  eyes.  Into  Miss 
Henderson's  somewhat  harassed  mind  there  came  back 
Miss  Clare's  words — "I  tell  you,  that  girl  is  beautiful!" 
And  Miss  Henderson  had  not  believed  her. 

Yet,  Enid  was  not  beautiful  even  now,  in  Miss  Hen- 
derson's estimation.  To  be  thoroughly  and  entirely 
beautiful  Miss  Henderson  decided  that  fair,  curling, 
golden  hair  and  very  large  blue  eyes  were  absolute  es- 
sentials. 'Nid  had  neither. 

"Anyhow,  she's  uncommon  looking  and  strange,"  she 
said.  "Queer  looking  I  call  her,  with  her  funny  looking 
eyes." 

She  stopped  and  spoke  to  'Nid,  she  even  unbent  to 
shake  hands. 

"I  hope  you're  getting  along  well  and  you're  happy," 
she  said. 

"I'm  getting  on  all  right,"  'Nid  said.  As  to  being 
happy  she  did  not  know.  If  having  little  or  nothing  to 
do  and  having  plenty  to  eat  constituted  happiness,  then 
she  was  happy. 

But  her  mind  was  groping  for  something  else,  some- 
thing different,  something  that  was  not  merely  food  and 
idleness. 

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James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

But  there  had  been  one  vivid  splash  of  the  purest  hap- 
piness in  'Nid's  life.  Two  Sundays  ago  Jim  had  taken 
her  to  the  sea  on  a  day's  trip.  She  had  seen  the  sea, 
had  stood  staring  with  great,  wide,  wondering  eyes  at 
the  things  she  had  dreamed  so  often  and  so  much  about. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  pictures  she  had  seen 
on  the  hoardings.  It  was  a  grey  day  with  a  chill  wind 
blowing;  the  sea  had  looked  a  greenish,  greyish  brown 
rather  than  blue.  But  it  satisfied  her,  more  than  satisfied 
her. 

They  had  left  London  at  six  in  the  morning,  they  had 
gone  down  in  a  railway  carriage  built  to  seat  ten.  There 
had  been  sixteen  of  them  wedged  in  the  carriage  some- 
how. There  had  been  other  girls  in  the  carriage  beside 
herself.  There  had  been  much  shrieking  and  giggling  and 
laughing.  Most  of  the  girls  had  performed  the  journey 
seated  on  the  knees  of  the  young  men. 

'Nid  had  hated  the  journey,  had  wondered  if  it  would 
never  come  to  an  end,  had  wished  that  she  had  not  come. 
She  felt  tired  and  cold  and  hungry,  and  strangely  sleepy ; 
and  then  she  saw  the  sea — and  she  forgot  everything. 
She  was  stricken  dumb.  She  stood  shivering  a  little, 
but  it  was  not  the  touch  of  the  cold  wind.  It  was  some- 
thing else,  dim  memories  that  could  not  be  memories  after 
all,  because  in  all  her  life  she  had  never  seen  the  sea. 
In  all  her  life,  yes,  that  was  it.  But  was  this  one  life  all 
— everything? 

With  these  two  eyes  of  hers  she  was  looking  on  the 
sea  for  the  first  time  and  yet  it  seemed  in  no  way  strange 
to  her.  It  was  like  the  face  of  an  old  friend — a  friend 
dimly,  very,  very  dimly  remembered. 

It  was  not  in  the  least  like  those  highly  coloured  post- 
ers, those  which  she  called  "Rikitt's  Blue"  posters.  It 
60 


"The  Thing  of  Her  Dreams" 

was  different,  and  because  it  was  different  it  satisfied 
her. 

She  scarcely  spoke  a  word  the  day  long;  she  walked 
along  the  edge  of  the  sea  lost  in  dreams.  The  wind 
brought  the  colour  into  her  cheeks,  brought  a  new  glo- 
rious light  into  her  eyes.  It  caught  her  hair  and  tore  it 
free  and  Jim  looked  at  her  and  wondered.  This  was  a 
new  'Nid,  a  creature  he  did  not  know. 

He  spoke  to  her  and  she  did  not  seem  to  hear,  for  she 
never  answered  him.  For  him  it  was  rather  a  disap- 
pointing day.  She  refused  to  go  on  to  the  pier,  she 
refused  to  take  a  trip  on  the  cliff  railway,  even  she  re- 
fused to  go  to  a  shop  in  a  little  side  street  and  partake 
of  sausages  and  mashed  with  vast  quantities  of  onions. 
And  his  soul  yearned  for  them,  for  he  was  a  man  with  a 
big  and  a  healthy  appetite. 

"You — you  go,"  she  said,  "and  leave  me  'ere.  I'll  stay 
'ere  and  just  watch  the  sea,  Jim." 

But  he  was  too  loyal  to  go,  so  he  sat  beside  her  and 
wondered  what  on  earth  she  could  see  to  admire  in  that 
grey,  ugly-looking  sea.  Besides  it  was  cold.  He  would 
not  have  come  if  he  had  not  thought  that  the  sun  would 
be  shining,  and  he  was  hungry  and  just  a  little  out  of 
temper. 

But  his  lack  of  temper  was  lost  on  her.  He  might 
not  have  existed  so  far  as  she  was  concerned. 

Beset  by  ravening  hunger,  he  grew  sullen  at  last. 

"Any'ow,"  he  said,  "I  s'pose  you'll  come  and  'ave 
some  tea?  I  ain't  eat  nothing  since  five  this  morning, 
and  I'm  fair  faint  for  want  of  food,  I  am." 

"You — you  go,  I  wish  you  would  go.  I'm  not  hungry, 
I  don't  want  nothink,"  she  said.  "I  want  you  to  go, 
any'ow ;  you'll  find  me  'ere  when  you  come  back." 

61 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

And  because  he  was  hungry  he  went,  and  when  he 
came  back  with  a  paper  bag  of  buns  for  her  in  his  hands, 
he  found  her  in  the  exact  spot,  almost  the  exact  position 
in  which  he  had  left  her. 

"I  don't  want  'em,  I  don't  want  nothink,"  she  said. 
"I'm  not  'ungry.  I  don't  want  nothink,  but  just  to — to 
look." 

He  was  thankful  when  the  day  was  over.  He  was 
tired,  out  of  sorts,  grumpy.  But,  looking  at  her  in  the 
stuffy  railway  carriage,  he  saw  that  same  strange  light 
still  dwelt  in  her  eyes,  that  rapt  look,  that  far-away  look 
of  one  who  sees  not  the  sordid  reality  about  her,  but  is 
looking  away — away  into  some  dim,  misty  past,  a  past 
that  has  never  been — in  this  life  at  any  rate. 

And  he,  with  his  limited  vocabulary  and  his  restricted 
means  of  expressing  himself,  had  one  word  only  to 
describe  that  look — "barmy,"  he  thought.  "The  sea's 
driven  her  barmy." 

Perhaps  she  had  not  uttered  fifty  words  during  the 
entire  day.  She  scarcely  broke  silence  during  the  long, 
tedious  and  uncomfortable  journey  back  to  town. 

But  she  suffered  no  discomfort,  she  did  not  hate  the 
journey  as  she  had  hated  it  coming  down.  She  could 
still  see  it,  the  grey  sea,  with  the  flashes  of  distant  white 
foam,  the  low  flying  grey  banks  of  clouds,  white  plumaged 
gulls  skimming  the  water. 

She  saw  it  in  her  dreams  that  night  and  during  many 
nights  to  come.  It  was  from  that  day  that  the  strange, 
subtle  change  came  over  'Nid.  That  queer,  bright, 
dreamy  look  in  her  eyes  troubled  Jim.  He  tried  to  ques- 
tion her  gently  about  her  forebears. 

"  'Ow  about  your  mother — she  was  all  right,  I  s'pose, 
'Nid?" 
62 


"The  Thing  of  Her  Dreams" 

"Yes,  she  was  all  right." 

"I — I  mean,"  he  stammered.  "She  was  the  same  as 
others,  I  s'pose,  not — odd  like  ?" 

"Odd  like?"  She  lifted  bright  eyes  to  his  for  a  mo- 
ment. "My  mother  was  dear  and  good  and  sweet  to  me. 
I  loved  'er;  she  was  kind  and  loving  and  gentle.  I  don't 
remember  'er  none  too  clear,  only  I  remember  she  'ad  a 
sweet,  soft  voice,  that's  all." 

"And  your  father?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  remember  nothing  about 
him;  he  must  'a  died  or  something,"  she  said.  "Jim," 
she  said  suddenly,  "I  wish  I  'ad  learned  a  bit  more  at 
school.  I  didn't  learn  much  and  I  s'pose  it's  too  late — 
it's  gone  by,  the  time  for  me  to  learn  anythink." 

"I  s'pose  so,"  he  said. 

He  sat  here  smoking  his  pipe  and  studying  her.  He, 
too,  living  with  her  as  he  did,  seeing  her  every  day,  yet 
saw  the  change  in  her.  The  great  change  seemed  to  have 
come  from  that  day  when  they  went  to  the  sea. 

"Queer  eyes,"  he  thought  to  himself.  Pretty  eyes, 
too.  He  always  thought  them  pretty.  It  was  her  eyes 
that  had  attracted  him  first,  there  had  been  a  suggestion 
of  sadness  in  them  that  appealed.  Now  the  sadness  was 
gone,  but  there  was  a  curious  longing,  a  kind  of  hunger  in 
them  that  he  did  not  understand. 

And  the  little  thin  face  was  less  thin,  the  cheeks 
less  hollow;  they  were  filling  out  very,  very  slowly,  still 
they  were  filling  out.  The  face  was  becoming  oval,  the 
complexion  had  always  been  wonderfully  clear,  yet  in- 
clined to  sallowness.  The  sallowness  was  going,  some- 
times there  was  the  faintest  tinge  of  colour  in  her  cheeks 
and  then — then  she  was  suddenly  beautiful. 

Jim  recognised  it  in  a  disturbed  kind  of  way.  He  also 

63 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

recognised  another  fact  that  made  him  uneasy.  He  knew 
now  that  he  was  only  really  happy  when  he  could  see  her. 
He  knew  that  of  nights  when  his  work  was  done  he 
hurried  home  as  he  had  never  hurried  in  his  life  before, 
knew  that  his  heart  was  beating  with  strange,  sledge- 
hammerlike  blows,  and  that  he  was  hungry,  hungry  for 
the  sight  of  her. 

He  loved  her,  not  with  a  sudden,  wild,  passionate,  de- 
siring love,  but  with  a  great  love  that  had  come  to  him 
little  by  little,  that  would  abide  and  live  with  him  to 
the  end  of  all  things. 

He  had  never  told  them  at  the  worksheds  that  he  was 
married.  Sometimes  they  chaffed  him  about  the  "Kid." 
It  had  become  known  in  a  vague  manner  that  Jim  Woods 
had  picked  up  with  some  kid  of  a  girl  and  had  prac- 
tically adopted  her.  The  other  men  laughed — it  was 
just  the  queer  sort  of  thing  a  rum  chap  like  Jim  Woods 
would  do.  They  saw  them  together  sometimes,  Jim  and 
his  wife — "Jim  and  his  kid"  they  called  them.  They 
went  to  picture  palaces  fairly  regularly;  they  had  been 
seen  entering  the  same  house  when  the  shows  were  over. 
It  got  about  that  the  girl  was  the  daughter  of  Jim's  land- 
lady and  he  let  it  go  at  that. 

It  took  but  little,  very  little  work  to  keep  the  tiny 
house  in  order.  That  she  did  keep  it  in  order  was  beyond 
question — the  place  was  like  a  new  pin.  When  Jim 
came  home  every  night  there  was  always  a  meal  excel- 
lently cooked  for  him,  a  bright  fire,  a  clean  tablecloth. 
No  man  could  have  been  better  served. 

And  she  was  economical,  too.    He  found  out  that  it 

cost  but  little,  if  any  more,  to  be  running  this  "show"  of 

his  own  than  the  expense  of  living  as  a  single  man  in 

apartments,  and  the  comfort — there  was  no  comparison. 

64 


"The  Thing  of  Her  Dreams" 

And  besides,  there  was  the  Kid  for  him  to  stare  at  and 
occasionally  speak  to  during  the  evenings.  But  time  hung 
heavily  on  'Nid's  hands  and  for  a  time  she  almost  missed 
the  Snowflake. 

And  then  time  hung  heavily  on  her  hands  no  longer 
— Mrs.  Crutchett's  lodger  made  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  to  her. 

Mrs.  Crutchett  was  the  woman  next  door  and  her 
lodger  was  Miss  Simmons,  a  decayed  gentlewoman  who 
had  once  been  a  school  teacher.  'Nid  had  attracted  her 
from  the  commencement.  The  girl  was  "unusual." 
Presently  Miss  Simmons  discovered  that  the  girl  had  a 
great  hunger  for  knowledge  and  she,  Miss  Simmons,  had 
an  equal  hunger  for  human  companionship  other  than 
that  of  Mrs.  Crutchett,  whose  conversation  was  limited 
and  inclined  to  be  wearisome  by  reason  of  constant  repe- 
tition. 

"What  I'm  to  do  I  don't  know,  with  the  rent  falling 
due  Friday  and  that  there  'Nosey  Parker'  coming  round 
to  collect,  and  the  price  of  things  is  getting  terrible. 
Cabbages,  f'r  instance,  gone  up;  you  can't  get  a  cabbage 
under  thruppence  and  nothink  at  that."  This  was  the 
burden  of  Mrs.  Crutchett's  song. 

So  Miss  Simmons  made  up  a  little  parcel  of  old  and 
valued  books  and  went  in  to  see  'Nid.  That  was  the 
beginning  of  it.  Miss  Simmons  went  every  day;  she 
and  'Nid  spent  hours  together,  the  girl  poring  over  the 
books  or  listening  with  rapt  attention  to  the  woman  who 
had  constituted  herself  her  teacher — unpaid  except  by 
various  cups  of  tea  and  some  delicately  cut  bread  and 
butter  that  reminded  Miss  Simmons  of  happier  bygone 
days. 

And  when  she  was  not  there,  her  books  were.  The 

65 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

house  never  suffered;  Jim's  meals  were  as  punctual  and 
as  well  cooked  as  ever,  the  little  place  shone  like  a 
new  shilling.  Yet  'Nid  found  time  for  her  books. 

Miss  Simmons  had  taken  her  speech  in  hand,  so  to 
speak — 'Nid  was  improving.  She  rarely  dropped  her 
aitches  now  and  did  not  mix  her  tenses  in  the  old 
familiar  fashion.  But  Jim  noticed  nothing. 

Yes,  the  six  weeks  had  made  a  great  change  in  'Nid, 
and  so  Miss  Henderson,  meeting  her  in  the  street,  re- 
membered Miss  Clare's  words:  "The  girl  is  beautiful; 
with  those  eyes  of  hers  she  could  not  be  anything 
else." 

"She's  funny  looking  anyhow  and  odd,  unusual,"  Miss 

Henderson  thought.  "But  it  ain't  my  idea  of  beauty " 

And  it  was  not 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  WHEEL  TURNS 

HE  was  a  little  grey  man,  extremely  well  dressed.  He 
looked  out  of  place  in  Pent  Street,  where  folks  did 
not  dress  with  such  scrupulous  care,  and  where  the 
morning  tub  was  practically  unknown.  Smart,  dapper, 
grey  whiskered,  he  stood  on  the  step  and  looked  at  'Nid 
through  large,  magnifying  spectacles. 

"This  is  number  eight  ?"  he  said. 

She  nodded.  She  wondered;  it  could  not  be  the  rent 
because  the  rent  was  paid  yesterday,  and  she  owed 
nothing,  not  a  penny.  Perhaps  she  was  the  only  person 
in  the  street  who  could  have  received  a  strange  visitor  in 
this  manner  unmoved  and  undismayed  by  thoughts  of 
possible  County  Court  summonses. 

"The — the  name,  I  understand,  is "    He  hesitated. 

"Woods,"  she  said,  "Woods!" 

He  looked  disappointed,  bitterly  disappointed. 

"Then — then  I  have  been  misinformed.  I  am  very 
sorry,  I  understood  that  the  name  was  Bevanwood." 

"So  it  is!" 

His  face  lighted  up  again.  "I  understood  you  to 
say " 

"It's  Bevanwood,  only  he  calls  hisself — himself  I  mean 
— Woods,  it's  shorter  and  saves  trouble." 

"Oh,"  he  said.     "Then  it  is  Bevanwood,  your — your 

father,  I  suppose?    And  yet — it — no "    He  paused. 

67 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"My  husband." 

"But  you  look  very  young." 

"I'm  turned  seventeen,"  she  said.  "I'll  be  eighteen 
come  June." 

"And — really  your  husband's  name  is  Bevanwood?" 

"Yes!" 

"Might  I  come  inside?" 

'Nid  hesitated;  she  had  no  liking  for  strangers.  But 
he  was  old,  he  looked  respectable  and  harmless.  She 
opened  the  door  a  little  wider. 

"Will  you  tell  me  your  husband's  complete  name  ?"  he 
said. 

She  nodded.  "James  Curtis  Bevanwood,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"Oh,  then  it  is  so.  I  felt  sure!  Why  did  he  not 
answer  any  of  my  advertisements  ?" 

"He  didn't  see  'em,  I  expect.  What  was — were — they 
in,  the  evening  paper?" 

"No,  of  course,  the  morning  dailies  and  the 
weekly " 

"We  never  get  them;  Jim  brings  home  the  evening 
paper  and  that's  all." 

"But  his  friends?" 

"Jim's  got  no  friends,  and  besides,  those  who  know 
him  only  know  him  as  Jim  Woods." 

"I  begin  to.  understand.  Did  your  husband  ever  tell 
you  that  he  came  of — of  a  good  family?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "He  said  something  once  about 
relations  he  wasn't  good  enough  to  know." 

"No,  perhaps  so.  But — but  this  alters  it;  the  wheel 
turns "  he  paused. 

She  did  not  understand  him  in  the  least. 

"Tell  me  where  I  may  find  your  husband." 
68 


The  Wheel  Turns 

"Down  at  the  sheds  on  the  building  at  the  corner  of 
Hyde  Street." 

"I  will  go  and  look  for  him." 

"Remember,"  she  called  after  him;  "ask  for  Jim 
Woods ;  that  other  name  they  don't  know  nothing — don't 
know  anything  of." 

He  nodded  and  walked  briskly  away  down  the  street. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  'Nid  wondered.  Then  she 
went  back  to  her  book — Tennyson  of  all  things.  There 
was  much  that  she  could  not  follow,  yet  much  that  she 
did  understand.  With  her  book  she  forgot  other  things 
and  her  life  seemed  to  stretch  out  and  expand  for  her. 
Dreams,  ideas,  that  had 'been  vague  and  thin,  misty  like 
a  fog,  became  suddenly  real.  Engrossed  in  her  books 
she  heard  nothing,  knew  nothing. 

Ordinary,  everyday  life  passed  by  and  left  her  un- 
touched. The  fishmonger  might  go  bawling  down  Pent 
Street  that  fresh  herrings  were  to  be  bought  as  cheaply 
as  three  for  sixpence,  but  it  did  not  move  her.  Though 
fresh  herrings  at  three  for  sixpence  would  have  made  a 
nourishing  and  satisfactory  meal  for  Jim  and  her — two 
for  Jim  and  one  for  herself. 

That  night  Jim  came  home  with  a  queer  look  on  his 
face. 

"Kid,"  he  said;  "Kid."    He  paused. 

'Nid  looked  at  him.  "Nothink — nothing,  I  mean — 
wrong?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  heavily.  "It's  all  rum  and 
strange,  I  can't  get  over  it.  You — you  sent  a  little 
badger-'aired  chap  down  to  the  sheds  after  me." 

She  nodded. 

Jim  sat  down  heavily ;  he  let  his  big,  toil-worn  hands 
rest  on  the  white  tablecloth. 

69 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"It's  a  rum  go,"  he  said ;  "a  blooming  rum  go.  I  don't 
know  as  I  'alf  like  it,  Kid." 

"You  don't  owe  nothing,  Jim,  do  you?"  she  said. 
"Owe  him — anything,  I  mean?" 

He  shook  his  head.  He  could  never  understand  why 
'Nid  was  always  correcting  herself.  In  fact,  he  did  not 
know  that  it  was  correction  at  all,  it  seemed  merely  repe- 
tition to  him. 

"Anyhow,  it's  a  rum  go,"  he  said.  He  shook  his  head. 
"It  sort  of  upsets  everything."  He  looked  round  the 
bright  little  kitchen  with  loving  eyes.  "I'd  'ate  leav- 
ing  "  he  muttered. 

'Nid  was  dishing  up  the  meal,  a  big  pork  chop  for 
Jim,  for  herself  a  rasher  of  bacon.  Jim  loved  pork 
chops.  To-night  they  had  lost  their  fascination  for  him. 
He  sat  toying  with  it  and  frowning  at  his  thoughts. 

"A  rum  go,  Kid,"  he  said. 

"What  is?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter  pertickler,  it  mayn't  come  off. 
That  chap,  that  little  badger-'aired  chap,  'im  with  the 
whiskers — wanted  to  know  a  deal  about  me,  where  I  was 
born  and  'ow  and  why  and  'oo  my  father  was,  and  so 
on,  setra,  setra.  And  I  told  'im  and  'e  made  notes  and 
said  I'd  'ear  a  bit  more  in  a  day  or  two;  and  then  he 

shook  hands,  he  did "  Jim  looked  down  at  his  own 

hands  as  though  he  could  scarcely  even  now  believe  it. 

"Said  as  'ow  I  should  'ear  of  somethink  greatly  to  my 
advantage,  he  did." 

But  'Nid  Jiad  her  nose  in  Tennyson  again  and  Jim's 
talking  was  wasted  on  the  empty  air. 

And  that  night,  seated  by  the  kitchen  fire,  smoking 
his  pipe  with  his  hands  thrust  moodily  into  his  pockets, 
70 


The  Wheel  Turns 

Jim  talked  and  muttered  and  looked  about  the  warm, 
comfortable  little  kitchen. 

"I  don't  'arf  like  it,  I  don't,"  he  muttered.  "It'll  be 
a  sort  of  upsetting  of  things.  Any'ow,  it  mayn't  be 
right."  He  drew  a  long  breath  as  though  of  relief.  But 
'Nid,  with  her  mind  dazed  by  Tennyson,  was  not  listen- 
ing. 

She  rose  presently ;  it  was  ten — at  ten  she  always  went 
to  bed,  unless  they  went  to  a  picture  show. 

"Good-night,  Jim,"  she  said.  She  nodded  to  him  and 
turned  towards  the  little  staircase  that  opened  out  of  the 
kitchen  through  a  doorway  that  looked  as  if  it  belonged 
to  a  cupboard. 

"Good-night,  Kid,"  he  said.  "Kid "  He  paused, 

he  rose  to  his  feet.  "Come  'ere." 

She  came  back  wonderingly  and  utterly  fearless  to 
him. 

"Kid,  I'd  like  you  to  kiss  me  to-night.  I  feel  a  bit 
down,  a  bit  off  some'ow,  a  bit  lonely  like,  Kid.  Would 
you?" 

Her  cheeks  coloured  and  her  eyes  were  bright  as 
stars. 

"I  don't  mind,  Jim,"  she  said.  She  stood  on  the  tips 
of  her  little  toes.  She  meant  to  kiss  him  on  the  cheek, 
the  usual  kiss  that  she  gave  him,  usual,  though  few 
and  far  between.  Then  suddenly  his  strong  arms  went 
round  her,  a  great  hunger  had  come  to  him;  he  crushed 
her  to  his  breast,  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  the  eyes,  even 
the  nose.  He  kissed  her  a  dozen  times  and  then  suddenly 
released  her. 

"Good— night— Kid,"  he  said. 

Panting  a  little,  she  stood  staring  at  him.  Her  cheeks 
were  red,  her  eyes  angry  and  yet  not  quite  angry.  But 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

she  did  not  say  good-night.  She  went  up  the  stairs  and 
banged  the  door  after  him. 

And  Jim  hunched  himself  in  his  chair  and  sat  staring 
at  the  fire  that  was  burning  low. 

"How  them  chaps  would  laugh,"  he  muttered. 
"Laugh  fit  to  crack  their  sides.  Let  'em  laugh,  fools; 
they — they  don't  understand  'er,  I  do.  I  do/  One  day, 
please  God,  she  will  wake  up,  she  will.  She's  only  a  kid, 

yet  one  day  she Love  'er,  love  }er!"  He  clenched 

his  big  hands.  "Love  'er!  I  often  wonder  whether  any 
gel  'as  been  loved  the  way  I  love  'er.  I'd  lie  down  and  let 
'er  trample  on  me  with  her  little  feet  if  she  wanted  to. 
Love'er!" 


72 


CHAPTER  IX 
"MY  LADY" 

IT  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  some  days  later. 
'Nid  had  cleaned  and  tidied  the  little  house  from  top 
to  bottom.  She  would  have  two  clear  hours  before  her 
before  she  need  commence  on  Jim's  tea.  She  curled  her- 
self up  on  the  couch  in  the  sitting-room  and  opened  her 
book  eagerly,  her  eyes  were  bright  and  misty  with  antici- 
pation, her  cheeks  flushed.  She  might  have  been  a  girl 
going  to  meet  her  lover  from  the  look  of  her.  Anticipa- 
tion, joy,  eagerness,  they  were  all  in  her  expressive  little 
face. 

It  was  Tennyson  to-day;  she  read  where  the  book 
had  fallen  open — 

"She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet, 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat 
Had  it  lain  for  a  century  dead." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  repeated  the  words  to  herself. 
They  seemed  to  touch  her.  How  he  must  have  loved  her, 
that  man — his  own,  his  sweet.  Would  lips  ever  say  such 
words  to  her,  would 

The  door  had  opened,  'Nid  sprang  up.  It  was  the  little 
grey-haired,  whiskered  man  and  Jim — Jim  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon. 

Something  was  decidedly  wrong.  She  had  only  to  look 

73 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

at  Jim's  face  to  realise  that  everything  was  wrong.  He 
looked  sullen,  miserable,  wretchedly  unhappy,  almost 
shamefaced. 

"He's  been  doing  something,"  she  thought.  "And  it's 
found  out." 

"'Nid,"  he  said,  or  rather  groaned.  "'Nid,  it— it's 
all  up." 

She  had  once  read  a  story  in  which  the  villain  had 
declared  that  it  was  "all  up"  when  the  "  'tecs"  had  laid 
their  hands  on  him.  It  made  certainty  absolutely  certain. 
Jim  had  done  some  wrong  and  had  been  found  out.  This 
grey-haired  man  was  probably  some  famous  detective  in 
disguise. 

She  looked  at  him,  expecting  him  suddenly  to  tear  off 
his  whiskers  and  remove  his  wig  and  stand  revealed  be- 
fore her.  Probably  he  would  say,  "Ha,  ha,  the  game  is 
up!" 

But  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  only  beamed  on 
her  very  kindly  and  then  stood  waiting  as  for  Jim  to  go 
on.  But  Jim  did  not. 

"Well?"  'Nid  said.  Her  voice  was  sad,  it  had  a 
strangled  sound  in  it.  She  saw  herself  going  back  to  the 
Snowflake  Laundry,  to-morrow  probably.  The  girls 
would  question  her,  and  then  it  would  come  out.  Her 
husband  had  been  arrested.  He  was  a  forger  or  a  burg- 
lar, possibly  a  murderer — no,  not  Jim.  He  would  not 
hurt  a  living  thing,  but  it  might  have  been  an  accident. 

"Well?"  she  said.  "What— what  is  it?  What  have 
you  been  doing  ?" 

Jim  opened  his  mouth  and  closed  it  again ;  he  turned 
to  the  little  grey  man. 

"Mister,  you — you  tell  her,  blowed  if  I  can,"  he  said. 
"I  can't."  He  looked  round  the  little  sitting-room,  the 
74 


"My  Lady" 


"parlour"  as  he  called  it.  His  eyes  were  watery.  He  had 
been  so  fond  of  it,  so  proud  of  it,  this  little  home  he  had 
bought  with  his  own  earnings.  There  had  not  been  a 
happier  man 

"Tell  'er,"  he  whispered.    "I  can't." 

And  then  the  little  man  came  forward  and  held  out  a 
hand  to  'Nid. 

"Lady  Bevanwood,"  he  said,  "permit  me  to  offer  you 
my  most  sincere  and  hearty  congratulations." 

And  Lady  Bevanwood  stood  staring  at  him  as  at  an 
amiable  madman. 

"It  has  been  truly  said,"  Mr.  Aswell  proceeded,  "that 
every  cloud  has  a  silver  lining,  and  indeed,  in  this  case, 
it  seems  so.  The  tragedy  that  robbed  the  world  of  those 
two  bright  young  lives,  I  allude  to  Hugh  and  Ralph 
Bevanwood,  a  blow  that  killed  their  father — ahem,"  he 
paused.  He  realised  that  the  girl  he  was  speaking  to 
was  staring  at  him  with  wondering  eyes  which  pro- 
claimed the  fact  that  she  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  what 
he  was  talking  about. 

He  turned  to  Jim — Jim  sullen  and  despondent,  unhappy 
obviously.  "Do — do  I  understand,  Sir  James,"  he  said 
sharply,  "that — that  you  have  told  your  young  wife  abso- 
lutely nothing?" 

"I  ain't  told  her  a  thing,"  Jim  groaned.  "I — I  'oped 
it  wouldn't  come  off,  so — so  I  didn't  want  to  start  making 

a  song  about  it.  But — Mr.  Aswell "  He  hesitated, 

he  looked  at  'Nid. 

Mr.  Aswell  turned  to  'Nid  again. 

"Lady  Bevanwood,  I  have  to  inform  you  that  owing 
to  the  tragic  death  of  Mr.  Hugh  and  Mr.  Ralph  Bevan- 
wood, followed  almost  immediately  by  the  death  of  their 
father,  Sir  Harold  Bevanwood,  your  husband,  James 

75 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Curtis  Bevanwood,  son  of  James  Curtis  Bevanwood — 
^iow  becomes  tenth  Baronet,  Sir  James  Curtis  Bevanwood, 
of  Bevanwood,  in  Sussex."  He  paused.  "Bevanwood  is 
one  of  the  most  charming  and  historical  mansions  in  that 
delightful  county.  Your  husband,  as  next-of-kin,  suc- 
ceeds to  the  property,  which  is,  of  course,  entailed,  with 
a  rent  roll  of  some  eighteen  thousand  a  year." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  dazed  eyes;  slowly  she 
turned  her  head  and  looked  at  Jim.  He  was  staring  out 
of  the  window  into  Pent  Street. 

Tenth  Baronet — he  did  not  look  it,  with  a  black  smudge 
on  his  cheek  and  glowering  discontent  in  his  eyes — 
eighteen  thousand  a  year. 

"Jim!"  she  said. 

There  had  been  a  coolness,  an  estrangement  between 
them  since  the  night  three  nights  ago  when  he  had  kissed 
her  and  crushed  her  in  his  arms.  Since  then  she  had 
been  cold,  a  little  bitter  towards  him.  Now,  seeing  the 
trouble  in  his  face,  her  heart  went  out  in  pity  to  him.  She 
went  to  him  and  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

Mr.  Aswell  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  he  felt 
and  looked  hopelessly  astonished.  He  had  anticipated  a 
scene  of  wild  joy,  of  unbounded  delight.  He  looked  at 
the  man,  sullen  and  discontented,  the  girl  apparently  for- 
getful of  everything  but  of  sudden  pity  for  the  man  who 
had  unexpectedly  come  into  a  title  and  a  great  estate.  He 
saw  her  touch  his  arm,  saw  the  man  turn  and  grip  her 
hand  almost  savagely. 

"And  we,"  he  said,  "we  been  so  happy  here,  Kid,  so 

happy  here  in  this  little  place.    Some'ow  I  'ate "    He 

paused.    "I  s'pose  it'll  be  all  right  when  one  gets  used  to 
it,  only  I — I  'ate  change,  always  did  'ate  change." 

Mr.  Aswell  was  bringing  a  fat  pocket-book  out. 
76 


"My  Lady" 

"Ahem!"  he  said.  "In  case— it  struck  me "  He 

paused.  "Sir  James,  you  will,  no  doubt,  have  some  use 
for  immediate  ready  money — necessary  things,  you  know, 

clothes — ahem — a  fit  appearance,  first  impressions " 

He  paused  again.  "So  I  drew  a  couple  of  hundred  this 

morning  and  I "  He  laid  the  notes  on  the  table,  but 

they  were  not  listening  to  him.  'Nid  had  her  hand  on 
Jim's  arm. 

"I'll  try,"  she  whispered.  "Jim,  I'll  try  to— to  make 
your  other  home  just  as  happy  as  this  one's  been.  I'll 
work,  dear,  for — for  you  just  the  same." 

He  turned  on  her  suddenly,  he  caught  her  hand  and 
held  it  in  a  grip  that  hurt,  then  he  lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

"So  long's  I  got  you,"  he  whispered.  "So  long's  I  got 
you,  that — that's  all  I  care  about,  that's  all  I  want  in 
this  world,  Kid." 


77 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  HOME-COMING 

A  COMMON  working  man !" 
"A  bricklayer,  I  understand.    He  will,  no  doubt, 
appreciate  the  exquisite  herringbone  brickwork  of  the 
west  front." 

"Geoffrey,  don't  joke,  it  is  all  too  horrible.  Why — 
why  did  that  wretched  James  Curtis  Bevanwood  marry? 
But  for  that  you — we  would — there  is  always — always  a 
but — always  something  to  upset  things.  Think  of  it.  We 
might  have  been  rich,  this  place  might  have  been  ours.  I 
looked  on  it  as  ours  when  I  heard  of  the  death " 

"Curse  the  luck!  Curse  the  man  and  his  red-cheeked 
servant-girl  wife !"  Geoffrey  Clare  said.  He  said  it  with 
intentness  and  with  all  his  heart.  It  was  not  usually  that 
he  roused  himself  to  a  sufficient  extent  to  curse  any  one. 

"Oh,  curse  them  both  with  all  my  heart,  the  low,  com- 
mon, vulgar  wretches,"  she  said.  "And  to  think  that  they 
are  coming.  We  owe  this  to  that  interfering  old  beast 
Aswell.  He  always  hated  you." 

"I  hated  him,"  Geoffrey  Clare  said.  "A  horrible  little 
lawyer,  ugh!"  He  looked  down  at  the  beautifully  kept 
nails  of  his  beautifully  kept  hands.  His  fingers  were  long 
and  delicate,  his  hands  soft  and  pliable,  as  devoid  of 
muscle  and  strength  as  a  woman's.  But  he  was  proud  of 
them;  they  were,  he  told  himself,  the  hands  of  a  true 
artist. 
78 


The  Home-Coming 

Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  a  very  bad  artist.  He 
might  have  nice  hands  and  wear  low  collars  and  long, 
flowing  ribbon  neckties  and  velvet  coats,  and  wear  his  hair 
a  great  deal  too  long  to  be  pleasant,  but  it  did  not  make 
an  artist  of  him. 

"Have  you  thought  of  the  future?"  his  sister  asked. 

"I  hate  to  think  of  the  future." 

"Do  you  realise  that  we  have  practically  nothing;  we 
have  three  hundred  a  year  between  us." 

"I  have  my  art " 

She  sneered.  "You  never  earned  a  penny  yet,  and 
never  will.  Now  Sir  Harold  is  dead  the  allowance  he 
made  you  stops.  Have  you  thought  of  that?" 

"The  bricklayer  fellow  may " 

"I  hate  the  idea  of  your  taking  anything  from  him," 
she  said. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  softly,  "I  like  the  idea  of  taking 
anything  I  can  get.  If  the  bricklayer  will  part,  then  so 
much  the  better.  I  shall  tell  him  that  Sir  Harold  allowed 
me  eight  hundred  a  year " 


"He  only  allowed  you  four " 

"I  know ;  he  will  probably  suggest  four,  being  half." 

"Oh,  I  hate  it!"  she  said.  "To  stoop,  to  lower  one's 
self.  We  are  well-born  and  gentlefolks,  to  lower  our- 
selves to  such  people  as  these — a  bricklayer  and  his  ser- 
vant-girl wife." 

They  were  in  the  drawing-room,  the  brother  and  sister. 
On  a  little  table  close  by  her  hand  lay  an  open  telegram ; 
it  was  signed  "Aswell."  It  stated :  "Sir  James  and  Lady 
Bevanwood  leaving  by  three-fifteen  train.  Please  have 
them  met  at  four-fifty. — ASWELL." 

And  the  car  had  now  gone  to  meet  them — the  big  Rolls- 

79 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Royce  that  poor  Hugh  Bevanwood  had  bought  and  prided 
himself  on. 

The  Rolls-Royce  had  gone  to  meet  the  bricklayer  and 
his  wife. 

"Listen,"  Sheila  said.  "Listen!  These  two,  they 
will  be  ignorant  and  boorish,  vulgar,  impossible,  of  course. 
They  will,  in  all  probability,  be  a  pair  of  ignorant  fools. 
We  must  do  the  best  we  can  for  ourselves.  I  hate  the 

idea,  my  pride  rises  in  revolt  against  it Was  that 

the  car?  Listen." 

"It  is  the  car,"  he  said.    "Go  on." 

"We  must  do  the  best  we  can  for  ourselves,  we  must 
make  them  believe  in  us,  need  us.  They  wiH  be  strange, 
they  will  be  a  pair  of  very  ugly,  common-place  fish  out  of 
water.  We  must  make  them  feel  the  need  of  us,  make 
ourselves  essential  to  them,  you  understand  me?  We 
have  to  think  and  plan  for  ourselves.  We  have  nothing, 
we  must — bleed  them — hideous  word,  but  it  expresses 
what  I  mean.  I've  no  time  now  to  choose  my  language ; 
you  must  exert  yourself  to  please  the  woman,  I  will  please 
tHe  man,  do  you  understand  me?" 

He  nodded.  "I  am  to  fascinate  the  washer-woman's 
daughter  an(J  you  are  to  expend  your  arts  on  the  brick- 
layer. It  promises  to  be  amusing." 

"It  will  be  hateful,"  she  said.  "But  beggars  cannot  be 
choosers,  and  we  are  practically  beggars.  Hark!  They 
are  coming,  I  hear  the  car  in  the  avenue — come!"  She 
led  the  way  out  into  the  old  hall,  to  the  widely  open 
door.  She  stood  up  on  the  topmost  of  the  high  flight  of 
steps  and  he  lounged  behind  her. 

And  the*  car  that  was  bringing  James  Curtis  Bevan- 
wood, the  younger,  up  the  avenue  and  into  his  inheritance 
came  on.  Jim  looked  at  the  pile  before  him,  his  an- 
80 


The  Home-Coming 

cestral  home.  It  came  to  him  suddenly,  a  sense  of  pride, 
of  the  dignity  of  his  position.  He  was  master  here  now, 
where  his  father  had  been  born,  where  his  father's  father 
had  been  born  before  him,  where  a  long  line  of  Bevan- 
woods  had  been  born  and  ruled  and  died.  It  was  his. 

Something  seemed  to  rise  in  his  throat,  he  looked  about 
him.  The  sun  was  near  its  setting,  the  trees  in  the  wide 
home  park  were  casting  long  shadows  on  the  grass  where 
deer  were  browsing.  His — all  his.  He  was  master  here. 

Yesterday  he  had  been But  yesterday  was  gone  and 

with  it  was  gone  Jim  Woods.  He  wa"s  Sir  James  Bevan- 
wood  now,  master  here. 

His  chest  swelled  suddenly  under  the  cheap,  ready- 
made  coat,  the  coat  that  was  presently  to  bring  a  look  of 
sheer  horror  into  the  eyes  of  Geoffrey  Clare. 

"  'Nid,  it's  a  fine  place,  ain't  it  ?  Somethink  to  look 
at,  it  is,  and  no  mistake,"  he  muttered. 

But  the  girl  beside  him  said  nothing.  She  was  looking 
with  dilated  eyes,  her  little  breast  rose  and  fell  convulsive- 
ly, her  hands  were  tightly  clenched. 

Had  she  dreamed  of  something  like  this?  Had  some 
fairy  palace  formed  itself  of  her  dreams?  She  did  nol 
know,  yet  it  was  all  strangely  familiar.  Perhaps  she  ha/ 
seen  a  print  of  some  such  house  as  this  in  one  of  the  old 
sixpenny  illustrated  papers,  stray  leaves  of  which  some- 
times found  their  way  into  the  laundry. 

Hers — and  his — somehow  the  thought  did  not  please 
her — his.  He  was  out  of  place  here.  She  looked  at  him; 
the  sun  was  on  his  face,  his  face  was  shining.  His  mouth 
was  a  little  open.  He  was  not  looking  his  best.  Lost  in 
his  own  thoughts,  the  expression  of  his  face  was  some- 
what foolish  and  vacant.  She  drew  away  a  little  from 
him. 

81 


James  ,Bevanwood,  Baronet 

And  then  the  car  stopped. 

Gracefully  Sheila  Clare  descended  the  steps;  she 
stretched  out  a  white,  gracious  hand  of  welcome. 

"Welcome  home,  Sir  James,"  she  said;  "and  welcome 

home  to  you,  too,  Lady "    She  paused.     "You,"  she 

said.     "You?    This — this  is  too  wonderful." 

She  knew  'Nid  at  once ;  her  thoughts  flew  back  to  the 
office  at  the  Snowflake  Laundry,  the  damaged  petticoat, 
the  sullen,  defiant  hand  who  had  wrought  the  damage, 
the  vociferous  Miss — what  was  her  name? — the  man- 
ageress. And  'Nid  knew  her. 

"It  is  quite  too  wonderful  that  we  should  meet  again 
like  this,  isn't  it?"  Sheila  said.  "Believe  me,  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you  again  under  such  happy  circumstances." 

"Mr.  Aswell,  the  lawyer,  said  somethink — some- 
thing  "  'Nid  paused,  "something  about  a  Miss  Clare 

being  'ere — here "     She  corrected  herself.     "Only  I 

didn't  never  guess — I — I  never  guessed  that  it  was  you." 

"It  is  just  fate,"  Sheila  said.  "Geoffrey,  my  brother, 
Sir  James,  this  is  my  brother,  Lady  Bevanwood,  my 
brother  Geoffrey." 

He  came  forward  slowly,  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Jim; 
he  turned  to  'Nid  and  looked  at  her  and  the  look  in  his 
eyes  was  not'  of  disappointment.  On  the  contrary,  some- 
thing of  his  lazy  indolence  was  gone,  there  was  a  quick 
flash  in  those  eyes  of  his.  The  girl  was — unusual — ar- 
tistic, he  could  see  her  temperament,  it  was  as  artistic  as 
his  own. 

Those  big  eyes  of  hers  and  that  delicate  little  face,  al- 
most beautiful,  not  quite,  something  lacking.  What?  He 
wondered.  %  And  his  thoughts  travelled  quickly  while  he 
held  her  small,  well-shaped  hand  in  his  and  murmured 
the  conventional  greeting. 
82 


The  Home-Coming 

"It — it's  a  fine  place,"  Jim  said  heavily.  "Bigger'n  I — 
I  thought  for.  Never  been  'ere  before,  though  I've  'card 
my  father  speak  about  it — years  ago;  pretty  well  forgot 
all  about  it,  though — a  man  can't  spend  his  time  think- 
ing." 

"And  you?"  Geoffrey  said.  "You  are  not  a  man  to 
waste  time  thinking,  Sir  James." 

"Not  me,"  Jim  said,  not  understanding  the  sarcasm 
under  the  other's  speech. 

Geoffrey  was  watching  the  slim,  almost  too  slim,  nar- 
row figure  up  the  stairs.  The  girl  was  wonderful,  un- 
usual, interesting;  the  man — a  boor,  a  lumpish  boor,  just 
what  he  would  have  expected. 

"You'll  like  to  see  round  the  place  ?"  Geoffrey  said. 

"I  don't  mind,"  Jim  said. 

"Perhaps  you — you  are  wondering  who  I  am  and  how 
my  sister  and  I  come  to  be  here?"  Geoffrey  said  softly. 

"Me,  I — I  don't  know  as  I  give  it  a  thought,  it  seemed 
just  natural  for  you  to  be  'ere,  some'ow.  I  suppose  some 
one  'ad  to  be  'ere  to  sort  of  caretake,  'adn't  they  ?"  Jim 
said. 

"I  am  distantly  related  to  the  late  Sir  Harold,  mere 
distantly — unfortunately  for  me — than  you  are.  But 
for  you,  Sir  James,  I  would  be  master  here  now,  but  your 
claim  is  a  far  better  one  than  mine." 

"Sorry  if — if  I "     Jim  paused,  he  hardly  knew 

what  to  say. 

"Oh,  we  won't  be  enemies  on  that  account.  On  the 
contrary,  I  hope  we  shall  be  friends,  good  friends,  close 
friends.  At  first  you  will  find  it  rather " 

"I've  been  thinking  of  that,"  Jim  said.  He  stood  there 
on  the  threshold  of  the  big  drawing-room,  and  a  look  of 
awe  came  into  his  face. 

83 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

His — this  all  his.  These  little  tables  and  chairs,  all 
gilded,  these  ornaments,  these  pictures,  these  hundred 
and  one  things  that  his  brain  could  not  take  in  all  at  once. 
He  looked  down  at  the  deep,  soft  carpet,  he  looked  at  his 
own  clumsy  new  boots — which  would  not  accept  polish 
because  of  their  newness.  Fifteen  and  eleven  they  had 
cost  him,  and  he  felt  proud  of  them  as  he  had  walked 
out  of  the  shop.  Now,  comparing  them  with  this  carpet, 
there  seemed  to  be  something  wrong,  he  felt  that  putting 
those  boots  down  on  that  carpet  would  be  sacrilege. 

Geoffrey  saw  the  hesitation,  his  brain  was  keen  and 
quick. 

"We'll  go  and  have  a  chat  m  the  smoking-room. 
You're  like  me,  these  jimcracks  don't  appeal  to  you,  eh? 
Yes,"  he  went  on;  "the  late  Sir  Harold  was  my  friend. 
He  was  good  to  me  almost  as  a  father,  he  made  me  an  al- 
lowance. Now  I  lose  all,  of  course." 

"Why?"  Jim  asked. 

"Why,  my  benefactor  is  dead;  he  left  no  will,  nothing; 
besides,  all,  everything  is  entailed.  He  had  no  power  to 
continue,  and — and  my  sister's  allowance  is  gone,  so — so 
we  lose  all.  We  go  back  to  our  poverty,"  he  sighed. 

"I  don't  see,"  Jim  said.  "What  'e  done  I  suppose  I  can 
do.  I  don't  want  no  one  to  be  the  poorer  by  me." 

"You  are  too  good,"  the  other  said  softly.  "Too  good 
and  too  generous.  But,  no — why  should  you  allow  me  an 

income,  why  should  you  despoil  yourself  of — of " 

He  paused.    "Of  nine  hundred  a  year  ?" 

"If  that's  what  you  'ad  from  'im,  it'll  go  on.  I  don't 
want  any  one  to  be  the  poorer  by  me.  I  daresay  there'll 
be  plenty  over  and  above." 

Geoffrey  held  out  his  hand  and  grasped  Jim's  horny 
rough  hand. 
84 


j.  lie 

"I — I  did  not  expect  this,  did  not  look  for  it.  Sheila 
will  try  and  thank  you,  I — I  cannot." 

"That's  all  right,"  Jim  said.  He  felt  the  better  for  it. 
He  had  started  right,  he  had  done  some  one  a  good  turn ; 
it  gave  him  more  confidence  in  himself. 

"Is  this  the  dining-room?"  he  asked. 

"No,  only  the  smoking-room." 

Jim  nodded.  "It's  a  tidy  place,"  he  said.  He  felt  the 
same  awe ;  he  walked  delicately  in  his  fif teen-and-eleven- 
pennies.  But  he  must  not  show  it ;  he  must  appear  at  his 
ease,  for  was  he  not  master  here  ?  And  he  must  learn  to 
live  up  to  it  all.  He  was  Sir  James.  And  when  presently 
the  silent  butler,  the  deferential  footmen  and  the  placid, 
ancient  lady  in  rustling  black  silk,  Mrs.  Meadows,  the 
housekeeper,  came,  Jim  shook  them  all  heartily  by  the 
hand. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you  and  'ope  you're  well,"  he  said, 
and  felt  in  his  heart  that  he  had  risen  to  the  occasion  and 
had  acted  just  as  Sir  James  Bevanwood  of  Bevanwood 
should  act. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  AWAKENING 

ID  was  impatient  of  interference ;  she  did  not  want 
to  be  personally  conducted  through  the  old  house 
and  over  the  grounds.  She  wanted  to  see  for  herself,  find 
out  for  herself  and,  most  of  all,  be  by  herself. 

She  did  not  feel  the  same  nervous  awe  of  the 
servants  that  Jim  did — she  seemed  to  recognise  them  as 
servants.  She  slipped  into  her  own  place  quietly  and 
with  a  certain  dignity,  a  grace  that  was  born  in  her. 

She  made  no  outrageous  mistakes ;  her  only  mistakes 
were  of  speech,  and  these  she  usually  corrected  herself. 
She  had  chosen  for  herself  a  room  on  the  very  topmost 
floor.  It  was  not  the  room  for  the  lady  of  the  house — 
Sheila  told  her  so,  but  'Nid  looked  at  her. 

"I  s'pose  I  can  choose  the  room  I  want  ?" 

"Of — of  course,"  Sheila  said.  "But  there  are  some 
much  better  rooms  on  the  lower  floors,  besides " 

"I  want  the  room,"  'Nid  said,  but  she  did  not  tell 
Sheila  why;  she  saw  no  need  to  tell  Sheila  Clare  any- 
thing. She  wanted  that  room  because  she  could  see  the 
distant  sea  from  its  window,  and  the  sea  held  her,  fasci- 
nated her,  the  lure  of  the  sea.  She  had  never  seen  it  all 
her  life  until  that  day  trip  with  Jim,  but  it  seemed  part 
of  her  nature. 

So  she  went  prying  and  poking  about  the  house,  went 
on  voyages  of  discovery,  found  herself  in  dusty,  long- 
86 


iiic 

forgotten  attics,  and  within  a  week  she  knew  more  of  the 
house  than  Sheila  Clare  ever  would. 

There  was  not  a  room  that  she  had  not  entered,  not  a 
corner  of  the  fine  old  mansion  that  she  did  not  get  to 
know. 

At  the  little  home  in  Pent  Street  she  and  Jim  had  been 
good  friends.  At  night  when  he  had  smoked  his  pipe 
beside  the  fire  in  the  kitchen,  she  had  done  a  bit  of  sew- 
ing, and  they  had  talked  sometimes  of  nothing  that  mat- 
tered— it  was  not  talk  that  satisfied  her.  He  told  her 
of  his  work,  of  the  funny  sayings  of  some  of  the  men, 
of  their  doings,  their  troubles,  and  she  listened  politely. 

Now  they  saw  hardly  anything  of  one  another.  They 
met  at  meals  and  a  great  and  uncomfortable  silence  had 
fallen  on  Jim.  The  fear  of  speech  was  on  him ;  he  real- 
ised that  he  was  not  as  others  were.  He  gathered  that 
his  speech  was  not  what  the  speech  of  a  Sir  James  of 
Bevanwood  should  be.  He  studied  Geoffrey  Clare's  in- 
dolent swagger  and  soft,  drawling  voice,  and  tried  vainly 
to  copy  it  all,  making  himself  ridiculous  for  his  pains. 

For  while  the  one  might  sprawl  artistically  in  a  deep 
chair  and  still  look  graceful  and  a  gentleman,  the  other 
had  only  the  appearance  of  a  man  in  the  last  and  most 
helpless  state  of  intoxication. 

"The  man  is  impossible,  horrible,"  Sheila  Clare  said  to 
her  brother.  "But  the  girl" — she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
—"I  hate  her,  I  think  I  always  hated  her,  but " 

"Quaint  and  unusual,  interesting;  there's  something 
in  her,  she  fascinates,"  he  said.  "But  she  is  unapproach- 
able ;  my  task  is  harder  than  yours.  The  man  seems  to 
follow  you  like  a  shadow." 

She  laughed.    "And  the  girl  avoids  you." 

87 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

His  eyes  flamed  suddenly.  "But  she  shan't.  I'll  take 
her  in  hand.  I'll  tame  her  yet — watch  and  see." 

And  that  evening  as  'Nid  stood  in  the  long  picture  gal- 
lery, studying  the  pictures  of  bygone  Bevanwoods,  she  be- 
came conscious  that  he  was  standing  beside  her. 

"You  are  interested  in  these  pictures,  Lady  Bevan- 
wood?" 

She  nodded  in  silence.  She  resented  him;  she  wanted 
to  be  left  alone. 

"And  the  house?" 

"It  interests  me,"  she  said. 

"Doesn't  it  all  seem  strange  to  you?" 

"No,  it  doesn't."  There  was  resentment  in  her  voice 
and  he  knew  it,  but  continued. 

"It  is  not  strange,  and  yet " 

"I  don't  understand,  I  don't  know  nothink — anything," 
she  said.  "All  I  know  is  it  isn't  strange,  it  seems  just 
right." 

"I  understand.  Yet  you  were  always — forgive  me — 
you  were  never  rich,  you  never  lived  in  such  a  home  as 
this?" 

"No,"  she  said.  She  would  have  turned  away,  but 
he  pleaded  with  her  not  to.  So  she  stayed,  lest  he  might 
think  her  rude. 

"There  are  some  who  would  smile  at  what  you  say,  but 
I  know  better,"  he  said.  "Somewhere  in  the  past — the 
past  that  yet  was  not  a  part  of  this  life,  this  life  you  are 
living  now,  you  knew  of  something,  some  place  like  this. 
It  was  never  a  real  place,  you  never  lived  in  such  a  house, 
yet  you  saw  it,  shall  we  say  in  your  dreams?" 

She  nodded.  She  wondered  that  he  should  understand ; 
she  looked  at%him  now  with  new  interest. 

"That's  it — dreams,"  she  said.  "I  seen  funny  things, 
88 


The  Awakening 

many  funny  things  in  dreams.  I  seen  the  sea  in  my 
dreams  and  I  hadn't  never  seen  it  before,  only  the  posters 
on  the  hoardings;  and  then  when  I  see  the  real  sea,  all 
grey  and  brown,  and  the  curling  waves,  I  knew  it  was  the 
right  sea — just  as  it  should  be  and  not  like  them  posters 
— those  posters,  I  mean — on  the  hoardings." 

He  had  a  smattering  of  the  mysterious,  the  occult.  It 
had  interested  him;  he  had  studied  theosophy  without 
understanding  it.  He  had  never  tried  to  understand  it. 
He  had  told  himself  and  others  that  he  believed  in  re- 
incarnation; he  was  essentially  shallow  and  lacking  deep 
knowledge,  and  the  pose  appealed  to  his  vanity  and  self- 
esteem.  He  drew  on  his  slight  knowledge  now  and  his 
imagination  for  her  benefit.  And  while  he  spoke  she 
listened  with  breathless  attention.  She  had  forgotten  that 
she  had  resented  his  attentions  and  his  coming  here.  And 
he  was  secretly  delighted.  He  had  found  a  way  past  her 
aloofness,  he  knew  now  how  to  approach  her. 

"There  was  a  door  to  which  I  found  no  key, 
There  was  a  veil  past  which  I  could  not  see," 

he  quoted. 

She  held  her  breath.  "I — I  seem  to  understand  what 
that  means.  Go  on,"  she  said.  But  he  could  not,  he  had 
forgotten  the  rest. 

"What's  it  mean,  what's  it  mean?"  she  breathed. 

"It  means "  He  floundered,  a  little  out  of  his 

depth.  "It  means  just  this "  He  spoke  a  little  lamely, 

a  little  uncertainly.  "Of  a  sub-consciousness,  a  memory 
of  things  that  did  not  belong  to  this  life  at  all — things, 
places,  people,  happenings  of  a  previous  existence.  This 
is  not  our  first  time  on  earth.  In  some  past  age  you  were 

89 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

here,  not  as  you  are  now.  I  was  here — perhaps — yes,  I 
think  that  in  that  long  ago  you  and  I  met." 

He  saw  it  affected  her. 

"And — and  then  I  knew  the  sea,"  she  said.  "I  was  by 
it,  I  saw  the  sea  often,  perhaps  I  lived  in  a  ship." 

"Quite  likely,  or  in  some  fine  old  house  like  this,  one 
on  the  edge  of  the  sea." 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "Oh,  that  must  be  it!"  Her  face 
flushed,  her  big  eyes  shone,  a  sudden  and  wonderful 
beauty  came  to  her,  and  the  man  drank  it  in. 

He  realised  suddenly  that  she  was  not  merely  quaint 
and  interesting  and  unusual,  she  was  beautiful  with  a 
strange  charm.  It  affected  him.  An  artist,  even  though 
a  bad  one,  he  had  an  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  and 
she  was  beautiful  with  those  great  liquid  eyes  of  hers, 
pools  in  which  a  great  wonder,  a  great  desire  for  knowl- 
edge lay.  Those  red,  parted  lips,  showing  the  gleam  of 
little  white  teeth,  those  almost  colourless,  oval  cheeks. 
Beautiful — why,  he  had  been  blind,  she  was  wonderful! 

"You — you'll  talk  to  me  again,"  she  whispered.  "Tell 
me  more ;  tell  me  about  the  things  you've  read,  the  things 
you  know.  It  has  all  been  misty  and  unreal  to  me,  like 

dreams;  and  yet — yet  it  is  true,  I  know — I  know " 

She  paused.  "It's  this  life  as  is  more  like  dreaming; 
there  was  another  life  behind,  a  life  I  seem  sometimes  to 
remember " 

"And  in  that  life  you  and  I  met,"  he  whispered.  "We 
met."  His  eyes  glowed  into  hers.  "Perhaps  we,  you  and 

I "    He  paused,  dared  he?    Yes,  he  dared.    "Perhaps 

we  loved — who  knows  ?" 

"Who  know<>?"  she  thought.    "Who  knows?" 

It  was  Sheila  who  suggested  that  Geoffrey  should  teach 
her  to  ride. 
90 


Ine  Awakening 

\ 

Slender,  light,  graceful,  it  was  no  hardship  for  her  to 
learn.  She  learned  quickly ;  in  a  few  days  she  could  ride 
the  big,  steady  old  mare  and  sit  her  like  a  bird.  And  then 
they  went  for  long,  long  rides  together  on  the  downs  over- 
looking the  sea.  And  the  wind  kissed  the  rare  colour 
into  her  cheeks  and  made  her  eyes  bright. 

Her  love  for  the  sea  was  amazing  and  extraordinary, 
and  while  she  watched  it,  he  watched  her.  And  one 
whose  heart  was  very  heavy  and  sad  and  lonely  watched 
them  both  and  felt  strangely  out  of  it  all. 

'Nid  was  his  wife  and  yet  she  never  seemed  to  give 
him  a  thought,  scarcely  ever  threw  him  a  word. 

"Yet — yet  she's  only  a  kid,  after  all,  she's  only  young," 
Sir  James  Bevanwood  thought.  "One  day  it  will  come 
right." 

But  meanwhile  his  heart  was  hungry  for  her,  his 
eyes  were  wistful  for  her.  Sometimes  when  he  touched 
her  little  hand,  grown  so  white  and  delicate  of  late,  his 
blood  leaped  in  his  veins,  he  thrilled  at  the  touch. 

He  was  a  big,  commonplace,  ugly  fish  out  of  water,  but 
he  was  a  pathetic  and  lonely  fish,  too.  The  servants 
sneered  at  him,  he*  felt  abashed  in  their  presence.  They 
never  sneered  at  'Nid.  She  was  "My  Lady,"  treated  with 
respect  and  deference. 

And  in  his  loneliness  and  heart-hunger,  the  man  was 
turning  to  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  take  an  interest 
in  him.  She  was  always  by  his  side,  always  ready  with 
advice  and  help  in  little  difficulties.  She  shut  herself  up 
with  him  in  the  library  and  went  over  with  him  the  af- 
fairs of  the  estate.  And  he  thanked  her  gratefully, 
though  dumbly,  and  longed  with  all  his  heart  for  the  old 
days  and  the  little  kitchen  and  his  pipe,  and  'Nid  sitting 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

there  by  the  kitchen  table  with  her  needlework  in  her 
hands. 

But  to  'Nid  a  new  interest,  a  new  joy  in  life  had  come. 
She  had  been  like  one  groping  in  the  dark,  and  then — she 
had  found  him,  this  man,  and  he  had  opened  the  doors  to 
her,  had  let  the  light  in  on  her  darkness. 

He  could  talk  with  her  as  Jim  never  could,  he  never 
laughed  at  her.  Sometimes  his  eyes  smiled  into  hers; 
sometimes  he  held  her  hand  too  long,  yet  she  did  not 
notice  it. 

"By  all  means,"  his  sister  said  to  him,  "make  her  fall 
in  love  with  you,  that  is  all  part  of  the  idea.  But,  my 
dear  Geoffrey,  don't  do  anything  so  absurdly  impossible 
as  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  That  would  be  too  tragic 
and  too  silly.  Do,  please,  remember  that  she  is  only  a 
little  laundry  girl,  even  if  she  has  big,  soulful  eyes  and 
a  not  unpretty  face." 

"Not  unpretty,"  he  murmured  to  himself  with  a  wry 
smile,  for  he  knew  that  Sheila's  advice  had  come  too 
late.  He  knew  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  little 
laundry  girl,  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  girl  who  sat  so 
lightly  on  the  big  grey  mare,  those  great  eyes  of  hers 
gazing  far  out  to  sea,  the  cheeks  tinged  with  colour  by  the 
whip  of  the  wind,  her  hair  blown  about  her  sweet  young 
face.  How  could  a  man  help  falling  in  love  with  her? 

And  he  had  come  to  learn  by  innocent,  artless  words 
she  had  let  fall  that  she  was  an  utter  child  at  heart ;  that 
though  she  was  married  she  was  still  but  a  child — that 
her  husband,  the  great  hulking  man,  was  no  more  to 
her  than  any  other  man  on  this  earth.  And,  knowing 
this,  he  felt  a  joy  beyond  words. 

"She  has  never  loved  and  I  will  teach  her,"  he  prom- 
ised himself.    "I  will  teach  her  what  love  really  is." 
92 


CHAPTER  XII 

THEIR  SEPARATE  WAYS 

SIR  JAMES  went  on  his  way.  When  his  great  hulking 
figure  came  lumbering  down  the  peaceful  village 
street,  the  dogs  lying  sunning  themselves  in  the  dust 
wagged  their  tails  instinctively. 

He  hardly  ever  passed  one  without  giving  it  a  pat  on  its 
dusty  head.  He  never  passed  a  child  but  that  he  stopped 
and  felt  in  his  pockets,  the  pockets  of  the  new  clothes 
from  London  that  Sheila  had  insisted  on,  for  coppers. 

The  children  and  the  dogs  came  to  know  him  and  look 
for  him.  It  was  no  unusual  thing  to  see  him  tramping 
through  the  village  with  a  couple  of  dirty  faced,  happy 
little  ones  on  either  side  of  him,  and  a  dog  or  two 
lopping  along  at  his  heels. 

His  way,  the  children  knew,  always  led  to  the  sweet 
shop,  and  sometimes  there  were  not  two,  but  nearer 
twenty  of  them,  and  he  went  on  first  and  they  followed, 
and  always  with  a  mongrel  dog  or  two  in  the  procession. 

And  the  women-folk  from  their  doorways  smiled  at 
him  and  bobbed  curtseys.  For  the  man  who  loved  their 
children  was  a  man  after  their  own  heart. 

Down  in  the  village  they  reversed  things.  For  the 
big  man  with  his  ungainly  figure  and  shining  red  face 
they  had  nothing  but  affection  and  respect.  They  loved 
him,  came  to  watch  for  him.  His  coming  was  a  signal 
for  shrieks  of  joy  from  the  children,  and  it  was  not 

93 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

wholly  cupboard  love,  for  sometimes  he  would  go  tramp- 
ing out  on  to  the  hills  and  half-a-dozen  or  so  who  were 
sturdy  of  leg  would  go  and  tramp  it  with  him. 

Down  in  the  village  they  worshipped  the  man,  but 
looked  askance  at  the  girl,  his  wife. 

Job  Clark,  the  village  postmaster,  standing  at  the  door 
of  his  shop  and  staring  down  the  white  road  after  the 
little  slender  figure  on  the  big  grey,  closely  attended,  as 
always,  by  her  cavalier  of  the  flowing  locks  and  the 
flowing  necktie,  shook  his  grizzled  head  slowly. 

"  'Er,"  he  said ;  "  'er  with  'er  'orse  riding  and  always 
along  o'  that  feller  Clare — who  wasn't  no  better'n  a 
'anger  on  in  the  old  gentleman's  time — proud,  too,  and 
'aughty  like,  'olding  'er  'ead  wonderful  'igh  and  never 
giving  nobody  as  much  as  a  look,  who  be  she,  I'd  like  to 
know?  Like  as  not  a  jumped-up  nobody.  While  Sir 
James  be  Sir  James,  and  there  be  no  getting  away  from 
that,  whatever  they  servants  at  the  'ouse  may  say,  the 
cheeky  lot." 

"Har!  a  unrespectful  lot  they  be,"  said  Mrs.  Clark; 
"I  'ope  they'll  never  feel  the  want  of  a  good  master." 

Job  wagged  his  head.  "Anyhow,  if  she  was  my  wife — 
which  she  ain't — I'd  larn  'er  to  go  'orse  riding  along 
with  another  feller,  that  Clare  with  the  funny  tie — I'd 
larn  her  for  to  keep  in  her  own  place,  I  would,  and " 

"  'Oo  would  ?"  Mrs.  Clark  enquired. 

Mr.  Clark  hesitated.  He  turned  and  cast  a  dazed  eye 
on  the  distant  horizon.  "Looks  like,  wonderful  like,  we 
shall  'ave  a  storm  before  nightfall,"  he  said. 

"  'Oo  wouldn't  let  me  go  riding  with  nobody  if  I 
wanted  to  ?"  Mrs.  Clark  repeated. 

But  he  had  meandered  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
"Plough  and  Harrow." 
94 


Their  Separate  Ways 

But  the  storm  that  Job  Clark  had  spoken  of  was  a 
reality.  It  came  down  over  the  downs,  a  grey,  inky,  blue- 
black  cloud  that  spread  over  the  face  of  the  Heavens. 

"We  shall  have  to  ride  for  it — we're  in  for  a  wet- 
ting," Geoffrey  said. 

'Nid's  little  face  had  gone  pale.  "You — you  don't  think 
it's  going  to  thunder  and  lightning !"  she  gasped. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is." 

She  shivered.  "I  never  couldn't  abide  it,"  she  cried. 
She  had  forgotten  grammar,  everything  else,  in  the  ter- 
ror that  was  coming  to  her. 

"At — at  the  laundry  there  was  a  storm,  a  fearful,  ter- 
rible one,  one  day,  and  I  fainted,  I — I  couldn't  'elp  it." 
She  never  spoke  of  the  laundry  as  a  rule;  now  nothing 
mattered. 

She  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the  great  inky  pall 
spreading  over  the  sky,  and  then  there  came  a  sudden 
flash  and  a  distant  roll  of  thunder. 

Wild  terror  was  in  her  eyes,  eyes  glazed  with  fear. 

"What — what  can  I  do?  Oh,  what  can  I  do?"  she 
moaned.  "I — I'm  afraid,  I  can't  bear  it.  I'm  afraid." 

"There's  the  mill,"  he  said.  "We'll  gain  it;  it'll  be 
shelter." 

He  seized  the  mare's  bridle  and  urged  his  own  horse 
on.  Another  flash  and  then  another  and  the  girl  was 
sobbing  in  terror.  But  the  mill  was  reached;  he  lifted 
her  down  and  carried  her  in.  He  dragged  the  horses  in 
through  the  broken  wall. 

Outside  the  thunder  roared  and  the  lightning  seemed  to 
leap  up  from  sea  to  sky,  vivid  white  flashes  that  made 
the  brain  reel,  and  the  crashing  of  the  thunder  was  one 
continuous  roar. 

95 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

She  was  in  his  arms,  clinging  to  him,  sobbing  in  her 
terror. 

"Don't  leave  me,  don't  leave  me!" 

"Never,  never  in  this  world,"  he  whispered.  "Never, 
darling." 

And  she  did  not  heed,  for  fear  held  her.  She  did  not 
feel  his  arms  about  her,  she  clung  to  him  for  protec- 
tion, and  he,  with  the  madness  of  this  new,  this  strange 
love,  the  least  selfish  love  he  had  ever  known,  bent  his 
head  and  kissed  her  bowed  head,  kissed  her  hair  and 
murmured  words  of  love  and  endearment  that  she  did 
not,  could  not  hear. 

But  later,  much  later,  when  the  storm  was  over, 
almost  forgotten,  when  she  was  lying  in  her  own  bed 
safely  under  her  husband's  roof,  it  came  back  to  her,  much 
of  it.  And  she  thrilled ;  the  blood  raced  hotly  in  her 
veins  and  flamed  in  her  cheeks,  her  heart  throbbed.  She 
could  feel  his  arms  about  her  again,  feel  his  kisses  on 
her  hair,  hear  his  words,  "My  darling,  I  will  never,  never 
leave  you." 

His  darling! 

She  had  heard  the  other  girls,  the  girls  at  the  laundry, 
talk  of  love,  had  grown  to  hate  the  word.  But  she  had 
never  understood  it.  Was  this  love,  then,  this  that  had 
come  into  her  life  now?  She  wondered  as  she  lay  there, 
wakeful  in  the  darkness,  and  her  cheeks  burned. 

No  one  had  ever  kissed  her  hair  before;  once — once  Jim 
had  kissed  her  strangely,  but  she  had  shuddered  at  the 
time,  hated  him  for  those  kisses.  But  this  was  differ- 
ent. Why?  She  wondered.  Why? 

And  then,  she  wondered — to-morrow,  how  could  she 
face  him  again?    How  would  it  be  when  they  met  again 
in  the  peaceful  sunlight  of  the  morning? 
96 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  HUNGER 

WHAT  is  the  end  of  it  going  to  be?"  Sheila  asked. 
"I  want  to  know;  I  want  to  know  what  I  am 
working  for,  what  the  object  to  be  gained  is.  For  me  it  is 
tiring;  you  have  all  the  amusement,  all  the  fun.  I  sup- 
pose  "  She  paused  for  a  moment.  "I  suppose  you 

realise  that  there  is  not  much  fun  for  me  in  this  ?  I  feel 
like  a  bear  leader.  He  follows  me  about  like  a  tame 
bear,  or  some  great,  ungainly  dog.  He  depends  on  me 
for  everything.  I  feel  almost  sorry  for  him,  even  though 
he  is  rather  contemptible." 

She  was  in  her  own  bedroom,  dressed  in  some  lacey, 
rather  becoming  dressing-gown;  her  brother  was  loung- 
ing at  the  open  window,  sending  clouds  of  cigarette 
smoke  out  into  the  calm  and  peaceful  night.  The  last 
vestige  of  the  storm  had  passed  away ;  the  downpour  had 
freshened  the  air,  which  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of 
a  thousand  flowers. 

"Well?"  she  said  sharply.  "This  cannot  go  on  for 
ever." 

"I  do  not  mean  that  it  shall,"  he  said.  "For  ever  is 
a  long  time,  and — well,  I'm  young  and  in  love " 

"You— then  you " 

"Oh,  well,  one  may  as  well  own  it.  Yes,  I  am  in  love, 
genuinely  in  love.  She  attracted  me  from  the  start.  It's 

not  merely  that  she  is  pretty — I  don't  know "  He 

97 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

paused  and  drew  hard  at  his    cigarette.     "She's    odd, 
quaint,  unusual ;  she  appeals  to  my  artistic " 

"Rubbish!"  his  sister  said  sharply.  "I  warned  you 
and  you  did  not  listen." 

"Your  warning  came  too  late.    You  ask  what  the  end 

is  going  to  be ;  for  me — only  one  thing — 'Nid He 

paused.     "I  need  her,  life  will  not  be  complete  without 
her." 

"Rubbish!"  the  woman  said  again. 

"To  you,  not  to  me.  I  have  the  artistic  temperament ; 
you,  my  dear  Sheila — forgive  me  for  saying  it — you  are 
entirely  mercenary." 

"Sensible,"  she  said.    "Call  it  that." 

"Eminently  sensible,  you  look  for  the  main  chance — 
money,  wealth,  the  fat  of  the  land,  the  good  things  of  life. 
She  appeals  to  me  more  than  all  this." 

"And — and  the  end,  for  you  and  her?" 

"Only  one  thing  possible,"  he  said;  "love.  She  loves 
me;  to-day  in  the  storm  she  clung  to  me  and  begged  me 
not  to  leave  her — just  as  if  I  would !  That  man,  her  hus- 
band, with  his  round,  red  face  and  his  beefy  hands  and 
his  coarse  voice,  he  is  impossible  to  her.  He  is  nothing, 
never  has  been  anything  to  her;  she  is  a  child,  utterly 
ignorant,  utterly  innocent." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  have  guessed;  she  has  said  things  to  me  that  a 
woman  who  was  not  as  innocent  as  a  child  could  never 
say.  She  spoke  from  the  utter  purity  of  her  heart." 

Sheila's  lips  formed  the  word  "Rubbish."  But  she  did 
not  utter  it.  ^ 

"So — so  you  intend  to "    She  paused.    "Go  away 

with  her,  end  it?" 

"Begin  it,  begin  life  with  her — yes." 
98 


The  Hunger 

"And  the  future,  money?  Oh,  yes,  I  am  mercenary, 
I  suppose,  but  one  must  have  money  to  live  on,  and  you 
have  little  enough." 

"I  have  my  work." 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  but  there  was  a  suggestion  of 
sneering  in  her  voice.  She  held  his  work  in  no  high 
esteem. 

"The  man  already  depends  on  me,"  she  was  thinking. 
"This  place  is  his — when  she  is  gone  he  will  need  some 
one,  he  is  the  kind  of  man  who  must  turn  to  a  woman 
for  sympathy.  He  will  turn  to  me.  It  is  unfortunate 
that  Geoffrey  is  my  brother,  but  that  will  not  count  with 
him.  And  then  he  can  be  free.  He  will  understand  it 
will  be  necessary  for  her  sake.  I  suspect  he  will  consider 
her  even  then  before  himself,  before  any  one  else.  He 
is  that  sort  of  man."  She  frowned  at  her  thoughts. 

"And  then,  when  he  is  free "    Then  she  might  take 

her  place  here  as  mistress  of  this  old  house. 

The  man  himself  was  a  drawback,  a  husband  for  no 
gentlewoman,  no  educated,  intelligent  woman  like  her- 
self to  be  proud  of.  But  the  old  place,  the  wealth,  the 
luxuries  she  needed,  would  all  be  hers.  The  sacrifice 
would  be  worth  while. 

"And  now,  go,"  she  said.  "I  am  tired.  Good-night, 
Geoffrey.  I  only  ask  one  thing  of  you — do  nothing  till 
you  have  warned  me,  and  do  nothing  yet — give  me  time ; 
you  must  consider  me." 

He  nodded  and  agreed  and  went  out. 

'Nid  woke  to  the  new  day  with  the  consciousness  that 
something  had  changed  in  her  life.  She  lay  there  while 
the  warm  sunshine  poured  into  the  room,  lay  there 
thinking.  She  shivered  a  little  at  the  memory  of  the 
storm,  the  storm  that  had  driven  her  into  his  arms. 

99 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

He  understood  her  as  no  one  ever  had.  He  had 
talked  to  her  as  no  one  in  this  world  ever  had.  He 
was  different  from  Jim — different — it  hardly  seemed 
possible  that  they  were  of  the  same  species.  Jim  with- 
out imagination,  understanding  nothing  that  he  did  not 
see,  believing  nothing  but  that  he  had  been  taught  to 
believe  in.  He  went  to  church  regularly,  accepted  the 
Christian  faith  without  cavil  or  question.  He  was  just 
slow-going,  unimaginative,  honest — yes,  he  was  honest — 
and  he  had  been  kind  to  her.  Married  life  with  Jim 
had  not  been  terrible;  looking  back  there  had  been 
nothing  to  shudder  at. 

He  had  been  kind,  he  had  treated  her  almost  as  he 
might  have  treated  a  child.  Insensibly  she  had  grown 
to  depend  on  him,  to  look  to  him  for  protection.  He 
was  so  big  and  so  strong,  so  willing  to  aid  her  in  any  way. 
She  could  only  remember  one  thing  against  him  with  a 
shudder  of  repulsion — that  kiss  that  night  when  he  had 
caught  her  and  held  her  to  his  breast ;  that  hot,  passion- 
ate kiss.  She  had  never  quite  forgiven  that,  though  he 
had  never  offended  again. 

It  was  strange  that  she  was  thinking  of  him  so  much, 
going  over  in  her  mind  her  married  life  day  by  day  with 
Jim  in  Pent  Street.  Those  days  had  been  happy  enough 
for  her,  far — far  happier  than  she  had  ever  believed 
they  could  be.  She,  and  Jim,  too,  had  left  Pent  Street 
with  real  sorrow,  real  regret.  It  was  like  leaving  home. 

And  to-day,  presently,  she  must  face  this  other  man 
again,  and  facing  him,  would  remember  the  happenings 
of  yesterday.*  She  felt  nervous,  shy,  unwilling  to  see 
him;  she  almost  wished  never  to  see  him  again,  and  yet 
she  liked  him.  Like — was  it  like — or  was  it  the  love  she 
100 


The  Hunger 


had  heard  so  much  about  and  had  never  properly  under- 
stood ? 

One  of  the  maidservants  came  tapping  her  door. 

It  was  late,  it  was  quite  late.  Was  not  my  lady  going 
to  rise? 

"My  head  aches,"  'Nid  said.  "I'll  stay  where  I  am. 
Tell  them  that — that  I  shall  not  be  down  this  morn- 
ing." 

Oh,  coward  that  she  was !  She  -had  never  felt  better 
in  her  life.  She  longed  to  be  up  and  out  in  the  sun- 
shine, but  she  dreaded  meeting  him;  the  feeling  would 
pass  away,  of  course. 

She  rose  when  the  girl  had  gone,  dressed  herself 
leisurely.  They  brought  her  breakfast  and  laid  it  on 
a  table;  she  drank  a  little  tea,  but  she  had  no  appetite 
for  food. 

What  would  the  girls  at  the  Snowflake,  what  would 
Mrs.  Melchor  and  the  rest  think  and  say  could  they  have 
seen  'Nid's  dainty,  untouched  breakfast  this  morning? 
She  laughed  merrily  at  the  thought.  She  caught  a. 
glimpse  of  herself  in  the  glass  and  stared  curiously  and 
in  a  detached  sort  of  way,  utterly  without  vanity,  at 
her  own  reflection. 

"Am  I  pretty?"  she  asked  of  herself.  "I  look  dif- 
ferent somehow,  my  cheeks  are  not  so  thin  and  so  sal- 
low, there's  colour  in  them  and  they  seem  a  better 
shape,  rounder.  I'd  like  to  think  I  was  beautiful,"  she 
muttered.  "It  would  be  nice  to  feel  you  was  worth 
looking  at."  And  she  must  be,  for  was  he  not  an  artist 
who  painted  wonderful  pictures?  She  knew,  because 
he  had  told  her  so  himself.  If  she  was  ugly  he  would 
not  like  her — artists  only  loved  beautiful  things,  there- 
fore she  must  be  beautiful. 

101 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Daren't  face  me  this  morning,"  Geoffrey  thought, 
when  he  heard  the  maid  give  her  message.  He  wondered 
if  it  was  a  bad  or  a  good  sign.  Good,  he  fancied — it 
meant  she  had  been  thinking  of  him  a  great  deal. 

Still,  he  felt  vaguely  dissatisfied,  it  was  a  disap- 
pointment to  him;  the  morning  lacked  something  beau- 
tiful— it  was  because  there  was  no  'Nid.  Yet  he  would 
go  for  his  ride.  The  saddle-horse  was  brought  round 
and  'Nid  from  her  window  saw  him  mount  and  ride 
away  and  breathed  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

He  was  gone — 'Nid  put  on  her  hat  and  slipped  quietly 
down  the  stairs.  She  might  have  been  a  schoolgirl  steal- 
ing away  breaking  bounds  against  orders.  She  was  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  subdued  excitement. 

She  wanted  to  be  alone,  quite  alone  this  morning, 
somewhere  out  on  the  hills  where  she  could  see  the 
sea,  where  she  could  lie  down  on  the  soft  turf  and  think, 
with  the  blue  sky  above  her. 

No  one  saw  her  steal  out,  she  took  care  of  that.  Now 
she  had  gained  the  road  and  walked  on  quickly  through 
the  village.  The  village  folk  bobbed  and  curtseyed  to 
her,  but  they  did  not  give  her  the  smiles  that  they  gave 
to  her  husband.  No  dog  wagged  its  stumpy  tail  in 
the  dust  as  she  passed:  the  children  did  not  come  flock- 
ing to  greet  her;  she  would  have  been  surprised  if  they 
had.  She  hated  children,  she  told  herself.  A  nuisance 
they  were,  always  getting  dirty  and  falling  down  and 
hurting  themselves,  and  rows,  always  making  rows.  She 
hoped  that  she  would  never  have  any  children,  she  would 
pray  against  tsuch  a  calamity. 

She  had  gained  the  hills,  she  climbed  them  with  quick- 
ened breath  and  heightened  colour.  She  gloried  in  the 
freedom,  the  sunshine,  the  loneliness.  The  wind  kissed 
1 02 


The  Hunger 

her  cheeks,  the  free,  fresh  wind  laden  with  a  touch  of 
the  salt  from  the  sea  whence  it  had  come.  She  snatched 
off  her  hat  and  let  the  wind  play  with  her  hair.  She 
who  told  herself  that  she  hated  children  was  a  child 
herself.  She  stooped  and  picked  daisies,  a  bunch  of  the 
pretty  grass  with  its  little  brown  seedlings  which  grows 
on  the  Sussex  Downs.  She  walked  on  till  she  could 
see  the  sea  shimmering  like  the  surface  of  a  great  golden 
shield  in  the  distance,  and  then  she  lay  down  and  put 
her  elbows  on  the  ground  and  supported  her  chin  on  her 
hands  and  looked  her  fill,  if  she  could  ever  look  her  fill. 

She  lay  there  for  an  hour  and  then  rose ;  she  wandered 
on;  the  hill  dipped — dipped  to  a  winding  road,  a  road 
running  like  an  irregular  white  ribbon  through  the  green. 
She  gained  the  road  and  followed  it  for  a  time.  It  de- 
scended into  a  hollow  where  trees  grew;  she  heard  the 
ripple  of  running  water  among  the  trees,  she  saw  a 
cottage. 

It  was  a  tiny  place,  a  place  of  four  rooms;  it  was 
empty.  The  door  hung  broken  on  its  hinges,  the  old 
thatched  roof  was  ragged  and  worn.  Evidently  it  had 
not  been  tenanted  for  years.  But  there  was  a  curious 
attraction  about  the  place  set  here  alone  in  the  midst 
of  the  hills,  surrounded  by  its  little  belt  of  trees  with 
the  trickling  stream  running  by  the  broken  door. 

It  had  a  strange,  desolate  charm  of  its  own,  a  charm 
that  appealed  to  her.  She  had  to  step  across  the  stream 
to  gain  the  door;  she  pushed  it  open  and  went  in,  went 
into  a  little  bare  room  with  a  rusty  old  fireplace.  Be- 
hind the  room  was  a  scullery  or  washhouse  with  a  pump 
handle  and  a  sink;  from  this  room  through  a  doorway 
that  looked  as  if  it  opened  into  a  cupboard  she  found 
steep,  narrow  stairs  that  led  upwards. 

103 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

It  was  like  a  voyage  of  discovery,  an  exploration. 
She  felt  curiously  excited  about  it,  though  it  was  nothing 
but  a  very  ordinary  little  cottage,  much  the  worse  for 
age  and  neglect. 

There  were  two  rooms  above  with  sloping  eaves;  in 
one  room  the  floor  was  discoloured  and  rotting,  due  to 
a  great  gaping  hole  in  the  roof,  through  which  she  could 
see  the  blue  sky. 

The  long-neglected,  unpruned  branches  of  an  old  apple 
tree1  tapped  at  the  little  leaden  casement  window  to 
her.  The  ceaseless  tapping  and  the  ripple  of  the  brook 
over  the  stones  were  the  only  sounds  to  disturb  the 
silence  and  the  solitude  of  the  place — a  place  that  seemed 
to  be  forgotten  of  man,  lying  here  in  a  little  dip  in  the 
hills,  a  little  hollow  of  its  own. 

It  was  a  place  that  most  would  have  sniffed  at  with 
disdain,  a  place  that  suggested  dampness,  mould  and 
decay.  She  never  thought  of  dampness,  she  liked  it; 
there  was  something  about  the  little  forgotten  place 
that  appealed  to  her.  She  would  like  to  come  here  and 
live,  leaving  the  big  house  and  its  servants  and  its 
spacious  rooms  behind  her. 

Live,  live  here,  alone?  She  wondered.  Yes,  alone; 
why  not  alone?  She  had  been  crowded  all  her  life, 
had  lived  all  her  short  life  among  the  busy  swarm  of  hu- 
manity, had  been  elbowed  and  jostled  always.  Here 
she  would  have  room,  she  could  think  her  own  thoughts, 
live  her  own  life  free,  untrammelled. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  regret,  reluctance,  that  she 
came  away  at  last.  She  saw  a  little  half-ruined,  tumble- 
down shed  outside  and  she  peeped  into  it. 

Evidently  there  had  been  stores  kept  here,  some  of 
the  furniture  of  the  late  occupant.  There  was  still  a 
104 


The  Hunger 

broken-down  old  table,  some  chairs  (two),  both  dam- 
aged; a  rusty  iron  bedstead,  some  battered  boxes  filled 
with  rotten,  ill-odoured  straw. 

Now  she  was  back  at  the  brook;  child  that  she  was 
she  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  drew  off  her  dainty,  smart 
little  shoes  and  her  silken  stockings;  she  thrust  two 
bare  feet  into  the  brook  and  caught  her  breath  at  the 
touch  of  the  icy  cold  water.  Then  she  laughed  and  the 
colour  flooded  her  cheeks.  She  stood  up  with  her  skirts 
gathered  around  her  and  watched  the  sparkling  water 
surge  around  her  slender  ankles. 

She  forgot  time,  her  new  dignity,  everything!  She 
waded  on,  looking  for  those  strange  and  interesting  things 
that  one  finds  in  brooks.  She  prayed  she  might  find  a 
stickleback,  a  fish  of  some  kind,  but  she  found  nothing 
but  an  ugly-looking  newt,  at  which  she  shuddered  and 
before  which  she  retreated. 

The  newt  decided  her;  she  waded  ashore  and  let  the 
sun  dry  her  little  feet,  then  she  replaced  the  silken  hose 
and  the  dainty  French  shoes  and  made  her  way  back 
to  the  hills.  But  looking  back  at  the  little  cottage  in 
the  hollow  she  felt  a  keen  regret  at  leaving  it. 

"I  love  it,"  she  said.  "It's  just  the  place,  I  always 
seem  to  have  had  something  like  that  in  my  mind.  I'll 
come  again,  often  and  often.  No  one  shan't  know,  it'll 
be  like  as  if  it  belonged  to  me.  I  wonder  who  it  does 
belong  to;  I  wonder  if  he  ever  comes  'ere — here."  It 
required  almost  a  physical  effort  on  her  part  to  tear 
herself  away,  and  now  she  was  on  the  hills  again — and 
then  she  saw  him. 

He  was  coming  towards  her,  a  big,  ungainly  figure  in 
tweeds,  walking  slowly.  There  were  four  children  with 
him,  four  little  tousled,  white-haired  mites.  One  was 

105 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

clinging  to  his  hand,  the  other  three  were  lagging  a  little 
behind.  And  suddenly  'Nid  felt  that  she  did  not  want 
to  be  seen  by  him.  There  was  a  convenient  clump  of 
furze  and  she  knelt  behind  it. 

"Funny,"  she  said  to  herself,  "funny  how  fond  he  is 

of  kids  and  them  of  him — they She  corrected 

herself.  "That  there  little  'un  as  is  clinging  to  his  'and 

is  too  small  to  walk  so  far,  it's  a  shame She 

paused.  Evidently  the  same  thought  had  struck  Jim. 
He  stooped  suddenly  and  lifted  the  child;  he  set  her 
on  his  shoulder  and  held  her  there  securely.  The  sun 
shone  down  on  the  little  untidy  head  of  sunbleached 
hair  that  curled  above  the  little  round  face.  A  little 
hand,  perhaps  none  too  clean,  grabbed  at  Jim's  bare 
head,  caught  at  his  hair  and  took  a  firm  hold  on  it. 

And  watching,  'Nid  was  suddenly  conscious  of  some- 
thing, something  she  did  not  understand,  a  sudden  quick 
throb  of  her  heart,  a  sudden  mist  of  tears  before  her 
eyes. 

Foolish!  What  did  it  mean?  She  who  hated  chil- 
dren and  cared  nothing  for  this  man,  what  did  it  mean? 

"I  am  a  fool !"  she  muttered.     "I  don't  understand !" 

And  she  did  'not,  but  she  lay  there  and  watched  him 
and  the  tag  of  children  at  his  heels,  and  they  were 
descending  the  hill  to  the  winding,  white  road  that  she 
had  just  now  left.  And  when  the  dip  in  the  hill  hid 
them  she  stood  up  so  that  she  might  see  them  again — 
Jim's  great,  strong  figure  with  the  tiny  child  perched 
on  his  shoulder,  and  the  sun  made  a  splash  of  vivid 
light  on  the  child's  bare  head. 

And  then  suddenly  on  to  'Nid  there  descended  a  feel- 
ing of  loneliness,  a  strange  feeling  of  loneliness,  of 
106 


The  Hunger 

hunger  for  something,  something  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand. 

They  were  gone,  mere  specks  in  the  far  distance,  gone 
down  to  the  white,  winding  road,  the  man  and  the 
children.  But  she  could  not  see  them  for  the  tears  had 
come  and  all  was  misty  in  the  golden  sunlight. 


107 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THEY  TWO 

BEEN  out,  Kid?"     Jim's  eyes  met  hers  shyly. 
"Yes,"  she  said.    They  stood  in  the  hall;  he  had 
just  come  in,  had  followed  her  in,  half  an  hour  later. 

He  looked  down  at  his  white,  dusty  boots  nervously. 
His  big  hands  fumbled  awkwardly  with  the  edge  of  his 
coat. 

"Been  fur?"  he  asked. 

"Out  on  the  hills!" 

"You,"  he  said.     "And  me,  too,  I've  been  that  way. 

Some  time,  'Nid "    He  paused.    "I  wonder  if  you — 

you'd  come  out  there  with  me.  Not  'orse  riding,  I 
don't  mean,  that  isn't  in  my  line.  Just  me  and  you 
tramping.  Would  you,  'Nid,  just  once?  You  don't 
know  what  it's  like  out  there  and " 

"I  do,  for  I've  been  there  this  morning,"  she  said. 
"Out  there  alone!" 

"Would  you  come  with  me  one  day?"  he  asked  plead- 
ingly. 

She  nodded  and  laughed;  she  looked  at  him,  looked 
him  full  in  the  eyes.  She  wondered  why  she  had  never 
noticed  what  kind  eyes  he  had.  No  wonder  children 
trusted  and  loved  him. 

"And  if  I  got  tired?"  she  said.  "What  then,  Jim? 
Would — wouM  you  lift  me  on  to  your  shoulder  and 
carry  me,  too?'* 

"Then — then  you  saw?"  he  said.    "You  saw  me?" 
108 


They  Two 

"Yes !" 

"And  didn't  tell  me  you  was  there,  'Nid,"  he  said. 

"You — you  had  your  friends  along  with  you!"  she 
said.  "They  didn't  want  me,  you  neither,  perhaps,  Jim !" 

"I — I  always  want  you,  want  you — more "     He 

paused.  His  voice  was  shaken  with  a  strange  note,  into 
his  eyes  came  a  strange  light  that  reminded  her  of  that 
night,  the  night  she  hated,  the  memory  of  which  she 
tried  to  put  out  of  her  mind. 

"I — I  don't  see  enough  of  you,  'Nid.  I'm  just  'ungry 
for  a  sight  of  you.  Now  and  again  I  miss  Pent  Streef, 
I  do.  I  wish — I  wish  I  'adn't  never,  never  seen  this 
place.  I  curse  it  and  'ate  it,  curse  it  every  minnit  of 
every  day,  every  minnit  of  the  day  and  the  night.  I'd 
give  it  all — all  for  our  old  'ome  in  Pent  Street,  just  me 

— me  and  you,  'Nid,  and "     He  had  drawn  himself 

up,  he  stood  with  his  great  strong  hands  clenched.  He 
looked  foolish,  awkward  no  longer.  He  looked  what 
he  was,  a  great  strong  man,  stirred  suddenly  to  the 
depths  of  his  soul,  of  his  being.  A  man  who  loved  and 
craved  for  love  in  return,  a  man  who  had  cried  for 
bread  and  had  been  handed  a  stone,  on  which  he  had 
ground  his  teeth  impotently. 

And  then  the  change  came  swiftly  over  him.  He  was 
the  nervous,  awkward,  ill-placed  boor  again,  for  a  door 
had  opened  and  Sheila  Clare  had  come  out.  She  looked 
at  him  brightly.  She  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  James,  those  dusty  boots  of  yours  again,"  she 
said  sweetly. 

But  sweetly  though  she  had  said  it,  he  blushed  awk- 
wardly to  his  ears. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said ;  "I'll  go  and  change  'em,"  and 
he  moved  sheepishly  away. 

109 


CHAPTER  XV 

ADRIFT 

FEAR  had  come  to  'Nid,  fear  of  what  she  hardly 
knew.  Fear  of  Geoffrey  Clare,  of  herself,  of  her 
vague  longings,  the  curious  sense  of  hunger  at  her  heart. 
But  it  was  not  a  fear  that  was  entirely  unpleasant,  it 
was  fear  that  was  partly  joy.  The  fear  that  a  maid 
might  feel  at  the  approach  of  a  man  who  is  not  dis- 
tasteful to  her,  the  fear  she  might  feel  at  hearing  im- 
passioned words  of  love  that  she  scarcely  understands 
and  yet  which  are  sweet  to  her. 

'Nid  did  not  know  her  own  mind.  She  liked  Geoffrey 
Clare  with  a  liking  she  had  never  given  to  any  one 
else.  He  was  different  from  any  one  else ;  he  understood 
her  as  poor,  slow-going,  heavy-brained  Jim  never  had 
nor  could.  He  could  enter  into  her  thoughts,  could 
even  read  them,  and  unspoken  questions  in  her  mind  were 
sometimes  answered  by  him  in  a  startling  manner.  For 
he  was  clever  and  had  the  gift  of  intuition.  When  he 
saw  her  beautiful,  dreamy  eyes  fixed  wistfully,  with 
some  vague  longing,  on  the  sea,  he  gently  touched  a  chord 
that  he  knew  would  respond  and  vibrate  to  his  touch. 
It  brought  them  closer  together. 

He  talked  to  her  in  the  affected  manner  of  the  studios 
and  suburban* tea  parties  of  "soul  mates"  and  "congenial 
spirits."     And  she,  knowing  nothing  of  the  humbug  of 
it,  listened  and  was  thrilled. 
no 


Adrift 

With  her  it  was  all  a  matter  of  spirit,  with  him  all  a 
matter  of  the  flesh.  But  he  was  clever  enough  to  hide 
the  growing  passion  for  her.  He  knew  that  she  was 
easily  frightened,  timid  as  a  fawn,  quick  to  take  fright. 
So  he  kept  himself  in  control  and  talked  to  her  the 
rubbish  of  which  he  was  a  past-master.  For  how  often 
had  he  talked  that  same  drivel  to  other  women  and 
duly  impressed  them? 

He  stood  on  the  breezy  Downs  and  quoted  Omar 
to  her.  She  did  not  understand  it  in  the  least,  but  she 
was  thrilled,  she  loved  it,  loved  it  the  better  because 
it  was  beyond  her  comprehension. 

And,  oh,  the  tenderness  he  could  so  skilfully  put 
into  his  rich,  mellow  voice.  How  she  thrilled  at  the 
words,  what  meaning  they  had  for  her ! 

"Here  with  a  Loaf  of  Bread  beneath  the  Bough, 

A  Flask  of  Wine,  a  Book  of  Verse, — and  Thou 
Beside  me,  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
And  Wilderness  is  Paradise  enow." 

The  Downs  were  her  paradise,  the  glint  of  the  sea 
like  heaven,  his  voice  was  the  only  thing  needful  to 
complete  the  spell.  She  did  not  realise  that  she  was 
drifting  into  real  and  terrible  danger,  there  was  no  one 
to  tell  her. 

Jim  trusted  her  absolutely.  He  longed  for  her  com- 
panionship, longed  for  her  with  a  great  and  growing 
hunger.  She  was  his  and  yet  not  his ;  she  bore  his  name, 
was  his  wife,  and  there  it  all  ended.  He  knew  that  she 
was  less  his  now  than  she  had  been  before  their  mar- 
riage when  she  was  only  a  girl  working  in  a  laundry. 

But  sometimes  the  desire,  born  of  fear,  to  get  away 
from  every  one  came  to  Enid.  And  then  she  would  slip 
quietly  out  of  the  house  and  go  tramping  away  across 

in 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

the  Downs,  down  into  the  little  hollow  where  the  old 
deserted  cottage  was.  And  there:,  like  a  child,  she 
would  play  at  "keeping  house." 

These  were  perhaps  the  happiest  moments  of  her 
life.  She  knew  every  nook  and  cranny  in  the  old  place. 
She  would  lay  aside  her  silk  stockings  and  her  pretty 
shoes  and  paddle  bare-footed  in  the  stream  like  a  child. 
She  would  tell  one  of  the  servant  maids  to  wrap  up  a 
little  luncheon  for  her  and  she  would  bring  it  here  and 
spend  the  long  day  in  happy  solitude,  never  for  a  mo- 
ment dull,  enjoying  every  moment  of  it  with  all  a  child's 
thoroughness  of  enjoyment. 

But  sometimes  when  she  came  into  the  dell  where 
the  cottage  was,  she  heard  voices  and  laughter.  She 
knew  that  others  came  here  sometimes.  They  had  left 
traces  behind,  scraps  of  food,  withered  flowers.  She  did 
not  know  who  these  others  were,  but  she  felt  a  queer 
hatred  of  them.  They  were  trespassers ;  she  wanted  the 
little  place  to  herself — hated  to  think  that  others  shared 
it  with  her.  When  she  heard  those  voices  and  the 
laughter,  then  she  would  shrink  back  and  go  quietly 
away  with  a  feeling  of  unhappiness  and  loss,  a  sense  of 
having  been  cheated  of  something. 

Geoffrey  Clare,  with  consummate  skill  and  patience, 
had  played  on  her  heartstrings.  He  had  watched  for 
the  wonder  in  her  beautiful  eyes  and  he  had  seen  it. 

"You  seem  to  understand  me  more'n — more  than — 
any  one  else  ever  did,"  she  said.  "It's  like  as  if  you — 
it  is  as  though  you  felt  about  things  just  the  same  as 
I  do." 

He  liked  trie  quaint  way  in  which  she  always  made 
mistakes  and  always  corrected  them.  There  was  nothing 
about  her  that  he  did  not  like.  He  was  really  in  love, 
112 


Adrift 

unselfishly  and  yet  selfishly  in  love  with  her.  She  had 
appealed  to  him  as  no  other  woman  ever  had.  He 
thought  of  his  many  past  love  affairs  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  They  had  been  all  ordinary,  if  pretty  girls. 
There  was  nothing  distinctive  about  them.  One  excelled 
in  eyes,  another  in  lips,  another  had  a  beautiful  voice, 
another  was  clever  and  interesting.  But  in  'Nid  seemed 
the  embodiment  of  all  the  attractions. 

And  meanwhile  Sheila's  ascendancy  over  Jim  was 
increasing.  He  seemed  to  be  helpless  without  her.  The 
London  carpenter,  pitchforked  by  fate  into  this  fine 
mansion,  made  suddenly  master  of  broad  acres  and  of 
great  wealth,  was  hopelessly  at  sea.  He  needed  some 
one's  guiding  hand.  Sheila  was  there  to  guide  him, 
tenderly  and  playfully,  yet  more  strongly  than  he  knew. 

"Enid  is  only  a  child,"  she  said  to  him;  "leave  her  to 
herself.  It  is  a  great  pity,  of  course,  that  you  and  she 
married  when  you  did.  She  was  not  old  enough  to 
know  her  own  mind,  so,  dear  friend,  you  must  wait." 

She  always  called  him  "dear  friend,"  and  he  liked 
it.  In  his  heart  he  had  a  fear  of  her — she  was  so  much 
above  him,  she  belonged  to  a  different  world,  a  world 
of  which  he  knew  nothing  and  was  as  yet  learning 
nothing. 

"Enid  is  only  a  child;  she  is  not  eighteen  yet,  is  she? 
And  she  might  be  fourteen  and  have  lived  all  her  life  in 
a  convent,"  Sheila  said. 

"I  thought  she  might — might  have  got  to  care  a  little 

for  me  by  now,"  he  said.  "But  I  s'pose "  He 

paused;  "I  ain't — the  sort  'Nid  'ud  ever  care  much  for. 
I  don't  understand  'er  like  she  wants  to  be  understood." 

"Your  marriage  was  a  mistake;  still,  you  must  make 
the  best  of  it,"  she  said. 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Yes,  it  was  a  mistake;  it  was  dawning  on  him,  and 
the  knowledge  hurt  him,  hurt  him  terribly.  He  hun- 
gered for  his  girl  wife,  his  heart  longed  for  her.  The 
indifferent  kiss  she  gave  him  now  and  again  simply 
because  it  was  her  duty  to  kiss  the  man  who  was  her 
husband  pained  him.  It  set  his  blood  dancing  for  a 
moment,  sent  a  thrill  through  him,  and  then  came  again 
the  bitterness  of  hopelessness.  He  watched  her  some- 
times when  she  did  not  know  it,  watched  her  with  his 
heart  and  his  soul  in  his  eyes. 

Would  she  ever  come  to  care  for  him?  He  thought 
not — hope  was  dying. 

And  Sheila,  watching  him,  understanding  him,  felt  a 
sense  of  fury.  What  a  fool  he  was !  The  girl  was  not 
worth  troubling  about,  a  little  twopenny-ha'penny  laun- 
dry hand! 

"You  think  too  much  of  her  and  she  isn't  worth  it! 
I  don't  believe  she  has  a  heart  at  all;  she's  just  a  selfish 
little  creature  not  worth  the  love  or  the  thought  of  such 
a  man  as  you,  James." 

He  stared  open-eyed  at  her. 

"  'Nid  not — not  worth  me,  a  chap  like  me  ?"  he  said. 
He  flushed.  "Why,  she's  worth  a  thousand  of  me. 
She's  in  'er  way  as  much  above  me  as  you  are,  Miss !" 

To  her  anger  he  always  called  Sheila  "Miss" ;  it  was  a 
habit  she  had  tried  vainly  to  break  him  of. 

"You  are  a  fine  man,  a  rich  man,  well  born  and  a 
gentleman  by  birth,  and  she — what  is  she  ?  A  child  from 
the  gutter.  I  tell  you  she  isn't  worthy  of  you,  she  isn't 
good  enough  for  you,  Jim!" 

"Don't — don't  say  that,  I  won't  listen  to  you;  you — 
you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  said  with 
such  real  anger  that  she  trembled  for  a  moment  for  her 
114 


Adrift 

•». 

ascendancy  over  him;  but  he  was  apologising  the  next 
moment. 

And  so  life  went  on  for  them  all.  Every  day  Jim 
and  'Nid  drifted  further  and  further  apart.  Every 
day  Geoffrey  Clare  brought  all  his  arts  of  enchantment 
to  bear,  and  he  was  winning,  he  knew  that.  Once  since 
the  night  when  the  storm  had  overtaken  them  he  had 
tried  to  kiss  her,  had  kissed  her.  But  he  had  seen  the 
sudden  fear,  the  almost  loathing  in  her  face,  had  felt 
her  draw  away  from  him  as  though  she  was  beginning 
to  suspect  him,  and  he  never  made  the  same  mistake 
again. 

"She's  driving  me  mad,"  he  said  to  his  sister.  "She's 
just  a  little  cold  icicle,  but  I'll  wake  her  heart  up  yet." 

"The  sooner  the  better!  I  am  getting  sick  of  this. 
I'm  tired  of  playing  bear  leader;  for  heaven's  sake  do 
something  soon!"  Sheila  said. 

"You  must  help  me,"  he  said. 

"I  ?" 

He  nodded.  "Talk  to  him,  tell  him  that  she  is  his 
wife,  say  that  he  has  played  the  fool  long  enough.  He 
will  listen  to  you ;  you  can  talk  to  him,  you're  a  woman ; 
I  couldn't,  you  understand?  Tell  him  that  the  only  way 
he  can  break  down  'Nid's  coldness  is  for  him  to  be  strong 
and  bold,  eh  ?  Tell  him  to  attack — you  understand  ?" 

She  nodded.    "And  then?" 

"Then  she'll  be  afraid,  she'll  turn  to  me,  her  friend; 
she  will  hate  him,  fear  him !" 

"It  all  sounds  ridiculous,"  Sheila  said. 

"It  may  to  you,  but  I  understand  'Nid." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Please  call  her  Enid 
when  you  speak  to  me  about  her.  Remember  I  did 
not  work  in  the  laundry  with  her." 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

But  she  took  his  advice,  she  spoke  to  Jim.  She  was 
clever  like  her  brother.  She  could  speak  delicately  and 
even  then  make  herself  understood  to  his  slow-going 
brain. 

She  summed  it  all  up  in  a  few  words.  "Faint  heart 
never  won  fair  lady" ;  and  why  need  he  be  fainthearted  ? 

The  girl  was  his  lawful,  legal,  wedded  wife! 

"She'll  think  more  of  you,  James.  Insist  on  your 
rights.  You  are  her  husband,  you  have  the  right  to 
kiss  her  on  the  lips.  I  see  she  gives  you  her  cheek. 
Kiss  her  to-night  on  the  lips.  If  she  does  not  like  it, 
insist  the  more.  You've  got  to  beat  down  this  silly, 
senseless  modesty  of  hers." 

"But  she'd  'ate  me,"  Jim  said — he  remembered  that 
night  in  Pent  Street. 

"Not  she!  She's  a  woman;  she  would  like  you  the 
better  for  it,  admire  you,  come  to  love  you  as  you  de- 
serve to  be  loved." 

"I— I'd  'ate  to  'urt  her  or  frighten  'er,"  he  said.  "I'd 
sooner  cut  off  my  right  hand." 

"Folly!"  she  said.  "How  foolish  you  men  are;  you 
don't  understand  women ;  women  like  to  be  bullied  and 
coerced.  They  admire  a  strong,  resolute  man  and  they  hate 
a  coward,  and  you  are  playing  a  coward's  part  with  'Nid." 

And  so  that  night,  against  his  own  judgment,  yet 
because  he  needed  her  so,  because  his  heart  hungered 
for  her  so,  because  he  believed  that  Sheila  was  infinitely 
more  clever  than  he  was,  he  followed  her  advice.  When 
'Nid  gave  him  her  cheeks  to  kiss  as  she  wished  him  good- 
night he  caught  her  suddenly  in  his  arms  as  he  had  that 
night  in  Pent  Street.  She  struggled,  but  it  was  useless. 

Sheila  understood,  she  was  right,  for  too  long  he  had 
been  wrong.  So  he  held  her,  he  forced  her  little  face 
116 


Adrift 

towards  his,  he  looked  down  into  her  angry  and  terror- 
stricken  eyes.  He  pressed  his  lips  to  hers  and  then  he 
let  her  go,  feeling  himself  a  brute,  hating  himself,  but 
loving  her  with  a  mad,  passionate  intensity. 

And  the  girl  fled  shaking  and  white  to  her  own  room 
and  locked  the  door  on  herself. 

She  could  not  sleep.  She  rose  and  went  out  into  the 
grey  dawn.  She  went  out  on  to  the  Downs  and  watched 
the  sun  rise.  She  felt  she  could  not  face  her  husband 
again ;  she  told  herself  that  she  hated  him.  She  thought 
of  London,  even  of  the  laundry — anything,  any  place  so 
long  as  it  meant  escape.  His  kisses — she  scrubbed  her 
red  lips  till  they  were  sore — the  kisses  of  any  man — 
hateful !  And  then  in  the  sunrise  she  saw  this  other  man 
who  understood  her  only  too  well. 

"  'Nid,"  he  said.  "What  is  wrong?  I  heard  you  pac- 
ing your  room  in  the  night,  I  felt  that  something  was 
wrong,  dear.  I  heard  you  come  out  and  I  have  followed 
you!" 

"Wrong! — everything  is  wrong.  I  'ate "  She 

paused,  "hate,"  she  said,  and  then  paused  again. 

It  was  his  chance,  his  opportunity.  In  his  mind  he 
laughed  at  her  for  a  little  fool;  he  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened, for  Sheila  had  spied  on  them  and  told  him.  But 
he  dragged  a  confession  from  her. 

"The  brute!"  he  said.  "The  brute!  He  does  not 
understand  you."  He  talked  to  her  of  the  soul  and  the 
spirit,  the  same  old  jargon  that  he  knew  she  loved. 

"You  cannot  trust  yourself  with  that  man,"  he  said. 
"You  want  freedom,  another  life,  something  that  I  could 
offer  you,  'Nid,  my — my  darling.  Listen.  When  I  first 
saw  your  dear  face  I  knew  memory  worked  in  my  soul. 
I  knew  that  in  some  past  age  you  and  I  were  all  the 

117 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

world  to  one  another.  This  life  is  not  all;  behind  us  is 
a  curtain,  thick,  heavy,  impenetrable,  yet  it  is  given  to 
us  now  and  again  to  lift  the  curtain  for  one  brief  moment, 
to  peep  behind,  to  see  the  past.  And  I  have  seen  beyond 
the  curtain,  'Nid.  He  was  wrong  who  wrote, 

"  'There  was  a  door  to  which  I  found  no  key, 
There  was  a  veil  past  which  I  could  not  see.' 

I  have  seen  beyond  the  veil,  'Nid.  I  saw  you — you  and 
myself  in  the  past  ages !" 

And  she  listened  to  this  trivial  stuff  and  believed  in 
it  because  it  all  seemed  like  an  answer  to  her  own  dim 
thoughts,  her  own  unformed  ideas. 

It  was  some  hours  later  that  one  of  the  village  boys 
came  and  slipped  a  letter  into  Sheila's  hand.  It  was 
hastily  scribbled,  a  note  written  in  the  local  post  office. 

"It's  all  right,  it  worked  as  I  knew  it  would.  We're 
off  and  away,  'Nid  and  I.  Wish  us  joy.  I  leave  you 
to  deal  with  the  man.  I've  got  enough  for  immediate 
necessities,  but  send  me  a  draft  for  all  you  can  manage 
to  the  Hotel  Boulogne,  Paris." 

And  Sheila  smiled  as  she  tore  the  note  into  tiny  frag- 
ments. 

Jim,  heavy  'eyed  through  lack  of  sleep,  came  and 
joined  her  in  the  garden. 

"Seen 'Nid?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  cannot  understand  where 
she  has  hidden  herself.  I  suppose  she  has  another  of. 

her  wandering  fits  on  her,  and  I  wonder "  she  added 

softly.    "I  wonder  where  Geoffrey  can  be?"    She  looked 
at  him,  but  bis  'eyes  were  innocent  of  suspicion,  for  he 
trusted   'Nid  with   a  trust  that  was  complete,   almost 
sublime. 
118 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HOW    THE    NEWS    CAME    TO    JIM 

TIM  wandered  about  aimlessly  and  disconsolately  all 
•^  the  day.  Luncheon  time  came  and  there  was  no 
'Nid. 

"I  cannot  understand  where  Geoffrey  can  be,"  Sheila 

said.  "It  is  very  odd — and  Enid,  too Strange  they 

should  both  be  absent." 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering  how  long  it  would  be 
before  he  began  to  suspect.  But  he  suspected  nothing; 
his  own  blundering  honesty  never  led  him  to  think  of 
'Nid's  being  untrue  to  him. 

Evening,  and  the  sun  was  sinking  over  the  Downs, 
the  birds  homing  to  their  nests,  the  red  glow  of  the 
sunset  in  the  sky  turning  the  distant  Downs  to  deep 
purple.  The  old  mill  in  the  far  distance  almost  black, 
clear  cut  against  the  sky.  And  she  had  not  come  back, 
nor  the  man. 

Something  stirred  uneasily  in  his  mind,  a  thought 
came,  a  suspicion.  But  he  put  it  away  from  him.  She 
had  gone  out,  had  forgotten  the  passing  of  time,  had 
made  a  day  of  it.  She  had  gone  to  the  sea  of  course, 
her  beloved  sea.  She  would  be  back  presently,  explain- 
ing apologising  perhaps.  No,  she  would  not  apologise, 
'Nid  never  did. 

Or  it  might  be — a  sense  of  personal  shame  came  to 
him,  he  remembered  that  passionate  kiss  of  last  night, 

119 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

the  horror  and  terror  in  her  face.  Had  she  run  away 
from  him  then,  dreading  lest  he  should  offend  again? 

"James,  it  is  curious  that  Enid  has  not  come  back." 
It  was  Sheila's  clear  voice.  "It  is  also  curious  that  my 
brother  should  be  away  at  the  same  time." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  quickly. 

She  came  to  him  and  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"James,  you  have  married  a  wife  who  does  not  under- 
stand you,  whom  you  will  never  understand,  a  foolish, 
romantic  girl  with  ridiculous  ideas.  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  as  she  is,  so  is  my  brother.  I  have  no  patience 
with  the  nonsense  of  which  he  talks  and  in  which  he 
believes.  I  know  that  he  and  Enid  have  been  talking 
this  nonsense — affinities  of  the  soul,  kindred  spirits,  meet- 
ings in  a  previous  existence,  and  all  that  stuff  and  non- 
sense." She  laughed  a  little  harshly.  Jim  looked  at 
her. 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  he  repeated.  "You — you  got 
something  on  your  mind ;  there  is  something  you  want 
to  say — say  it."  His  face  had  gone  very  white.  "Go 
on,  say  it." 

"James,"  she  said,  "Jim" — her  fingers  tightened  on 
his — "I  am  your  friend ;  if  evil  has  happened,  if — if  what 
I  dread  and  fear  should  be  true,  it — it  will  not  make 
you  turn  against  me,  hate  me  because  that  man  hap- 
pened to — to  be  my  brother?" 

"So — so  you  mean  that?"  he  said.  "You  mean  you 
think  him  and  'er  has  gorn — gorn  away  together,  left 
me— 'Nid?" 

"James,  I  fear  it  is  only  too  true.  I  have  dreaded  it, 
feared  it.  I^spoke  to  Geoffrey,  I  told  him  that  so  long  as 
he  lived  I  would  never  forgive  him,  never  look  at  him 
1 20 


How  the  News  Came  to  Jim 

again,  renounce  him  as  my  brother  if  he  brought  shame 
and  pain  to  you." 

Jim  nodded  slowly.  "It  isn't  your  fault  he's  your 
brother,"  he  said.  "You  don't  need  to  blame  yourself, 
you  can't  help  what  brothers  and  sisters  you  'ad,  no 

one  can.  But  I  don't  believe "  His  voice  shook. 

"I  don't  believe  bad  of  'Nid;  I  don't  believe  it's  in  'er 
to  be  bad.  I  don't  believe  she'd  ever  care  for  any  man. 
She — she's  like  that ;  she's  only  a  kid,  a  little  'un.  Chaps 
at  the  shed  laughed  at  me  when  they  see  me  with  'er. 
One  of  'em  arst  me  if  I'd  adopted  'er  and  I  said  yes, 
and — that — that  seems  to  be  'ow  it  'as  been  all  along. 
I  don't  believe "  He  paused  suddenly,  then  as  sud- 
denly tore  his  hand  from  hers  and  strode  away.  He 
went  out  into  the  night  and  walked — walked  hard,  walked 
till  utter  weariness  came  to  him.  And  as  he  walked  he 
said  to  himself:  "I  don't  believe,  I  don't  believe.  'Nid's 
good  and  right  and — and  innocent,  she  is.  'Nid's  only  a 
kid.  I  didn't  ought  to  have  married  'er,  I  ought  to  'ave 
waited — I  won't  believe." 

Sheila  watched  and  waited  for  him  with  growing 
impatience  and  annoyance.  He  always  annoyed  her, 
he  was  a  fool,  but  he  was  a  rich  fool.  This  place  that 
she  had  once  regarded  as  Geoffrey's  and  her  own  was 
his. 

He  would  free  himself,  of  course,  he  would  put  an  end 
to  that  ridiculous  marriage.  Then,  free,  she  would 
marry  him.  She  shuddered  a  little  at  the  prospect,  yet 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  it,  and  she  would  not 
spare  herself.  Married  to  him,  they  could  live  their 
own  lives.  Fortunately  he  was  a  man  it  would  be  easy 
to  ignore.  She  could  leave  him  out  of  her  calculations, 

121 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

she  could  spend  the  greater  part  of  her  time  away  from 
him. 

Sitting  here  in  the  softly  lighted  old  drawing-room  she 
made  her  plans  for  the  future  with  a  certainty  that  was 
surprising. 

At  last  she  heard  his  step  outside.  She  would  know 
it  from  all  others,  heavy  and  uncertain.  No  servant 
walked  so  badly  as  he  did. 

"Yes,  I'll  do  that/'  she  muttered.  "It'll  end  matters, 
anyhow." 

He  would  have  passed  the  open  door  and  gone  to  his 
own  room,  but  she  called  to  him. 

"Jim,  I — I  wish  to  speak  to  you;  I  have  something 
to  say.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

He  came  in;  his  face  was  white  and  tired  looking. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"I  have  had  news — a  message  was  brought  to  me,  a 
message  from  the  man  I  once  called  brother,  Jina," 
she  said. 

He  nodded  and  came  a  little  further  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  Jim,  it  is  true,  only — only  too  true,"  she  said 
with  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"You — you  mean  'im  and  'Nid;  mean  that — that 
they've  gone  together?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  they  have  gone  to — to  Paris,  he  and  she !  Oh, 
Jim,  Jim,  I  am  so  ashamed,  so  heart-broken !"  She  held 
her  face  down  to  hide  her  perfectly  dry  eyes. 

"So  that's  it !"  he  said.  He  repeated  the  words,  "So 
that's  it!" 

He  sighed1  ^and  said  it  again  and  again.  "So  that's  it." 
Then  he  turned  and  went  out.  She  heard  him  blunder- 
ing across  the  hall. 

"So  that's  it,"  she  said  in  imitation  of  his  voice.  "Yes, 
122 


How  the  News  Came  to  Jim 

that  is  it,  my  friend.  Now  you  know,  now  you  under- 
stand, you've  lost  her,  and  so  much  the  better.  You 
will  rid  yourself  of  her  and  make  room  for  me." 

She  rose  and  moved  about  the  drawing-room;  she 
examined  the  valuable  old  furniture,  the  several  pieces 
of  well-nigh  priceless  china,  she  looked  at  the  pictures. 
It  was  worth  it ;  the  man  was  impossible,  of  course,  still 
the  man's  possessions,  they  were  worth  it.  So  she  smiled 
to  herself  and  went  to  bed. 

Jim  sat  alone  in  his  room,  his  hands  clenched  and 
resting  on  the  table  before  him,  his  eyes  fixed,  staring 
into  vacancy.  "So — so  that's  it,"  he  said  again.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  could  say  nothing  else. 

"I  done  'er  a  wrong  marrying  'er ;  she  was  too  young, 
she  didn't  understand.  Maybe  she — she  don't  prop'ly 
understand  now,  I  don't  think  she  does.  Poor  'Nid, 
poor  little  'un!" 

And  then  suddenly  there  came  to  him  a  great  hunger 
for  her,  all  his  pent-up  love  for  her  flamed  up.  He 
clenched  his  hands,  the  perspiration  ran  down  his  face. 

"And  I  loved  'er,  worshipped  'er,  worshipped  the  very 
ground  'er  little  feet  trod  on,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I'd 
'a  died  for  'er  willing  if — if  she  'ad  come  to  me  and 
said,  'Jim — Jim,  I  can't  never  be  'appy  with  you,  I 
want  to  be  free,  and  the  only  one  way  for  me  to  be 

free '  I'd  'a  done  it,  died  for  'er,  died  for  'er  to  be 

free.  But  now — now "  He  dropped  his  face  on  to 

his  shaking  hands  suddenly. 

And  so  an  hour  passed  and  another  and  another  and 
he  sat  there  motionless.  And  outside  the  night  waned 
and  the  stars  paled  before  the  coming  of  the  new  dawn. 


123 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   BEST    FOR    HER 

could  guess  from  the  look  of  him  at  the 
tragedy  that  filled  his  soul,  the  emptiness,  the 
hunger,  the  torn  and  ruined  love,  the  sorrow?  To  the 
servants  he  was  the  same  as  usual,  and  so  he  was  even 
to  Sheila's  sharp  eyes.  His  face  was  heavy  and  impas- 
sive as  ever.  He  ate  his  breakfast  with  no  lack  of 
appetite.  Another  and  a  man  of  finer  feeling  might 
have  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  food,  but  Jim  did  not. 
Food  was  necessary,  it  was  fuel  to  the  engine — he  ate. 

During  the  meal,  while  the  servants  were  present, 
they  talked  of  indifferent  things.  No  reference  was 
made  to  the  two  absent  ones.  If  the  servants  wondered, 
they  had  to  keep  their  wonder  to  themselves. 

It  was  not  till  they  were  alone  that  Jim  spoke. 

"You've  'card  nothing  more?" 

"Nothing  more,  there  is  nothing  more  to  hear.  They 
will  be  in  Paris  by  this  time,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.     "I  s'pose  so,"  he  said. 

She  waited,  but  nothing  came.  This  man  was  annoy- 
ing, exasperating.  She  could  have  understood  if  he 
had  flown  into  a  violent  rage,  if  he  had  cursed  Geoffrey 
and  even  the  girl,  too,  but  he  did  nothing  of  the  sort. 

"I  shouldn't  'ave  believed  it,"  he  said  quietly.  "I 
s'pose  it's  all  right,  your  message?  'E  sent  it?" 

"It  was  right,  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  he — 
124 


The  Best  for  Her 

he  wrote;  I  tore  the  letter  up  in  a  fit  of  fury.  I  wish 
I  had  not  now,  I  would  have  shown  it  to  you." 

"If  you  say  so  it's  all  right.  I  believe  what  you  tell 
me,"  he  said. 

"Paris,"  he  repeated.    "Paris— 'Nid  in  Paris." 

She  looked  up  at  him  suddenly,  and  an  idea,  a  sus- 
picion flashed  into  her  mind. 

"Jim,  what — what  are  you  going  to  do?  You — you're 
not  going  to  follow  them,  you  aren't  going  to  Paris  ?" 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "Me,"  he  said  simply. 
"Why?" 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  She  had  foreseen 
a  scandal,  a  scene,  perhaps  a  crime.  Such  things  had 
happened.  She  knew  that  if  it  had  come  to  a  man-to- 
man struggle — Geoffrey  and  Jim — Geoffrey,  her  brother, 
would  have  been  helpless  as  a  baby  in  the  big  man's 
grip,  and  in  her  way  she  was  fond  of  her  brother,  she 
did  not  wish  harm  to  come  to  him.  But  she  might  have 
known,  of  course,  he  would  not  follow  them,  she  had 
been  a  fool  to  put  such  a  thought  into  his  head. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Out,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  see  Baring.  I — I  want 
a  bit  of  a  talk  with  him." 

Baring  was  the  steward  of  the  estate. 

"Oh,  and  you  will  be  back  when?" 

"Lunch,  I  s'pose,"  he  said.  "By  then  you  may  have 
'ad  something  else." 

"It  is  not  likely,"  she  said. 

He  went  out ;  he  was  gone  all  the  morning.  Just  be- 
fore luncheon  he  came  in  again. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  heard  him  mutter.  He  had  a  habit 
of  talking  to  himself,  which  was  one  of  the  things  about 

125 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

him  she  objected  to.  "That's  all  right."  He  spoke  in 
tones  of  relief. 

He  came  in  to  luncheon,  he  ate  with  his  usual  appe- 
tite. She  felt  disgusted;  she  watched  him.  The  man 
was  a  soulless,  senseless  creature;  he  accepted  almost 
indifferently  what  might  have  been  almost  a  death  blow 
to  another  man.  He  could  eat  huge  meals  and  talk  of 
indifferent  subjects  and  spend  the  morning  with  his 
steward  just  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

"James,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  if  you  think  of  going 
out  again,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.  "I  was  going  out,"  he  said,  "but  I  can 
stay  and  'ear  anything  you've  got  to  say  to  me." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  asked  sharply.  He 
was  taxing  her  patience  to  its  utmost. 

"To  do?" 

Sheila  stamped  her  foot.  "Yes,  do.  Great  Heavens, 
do!"  she  cried.  "Your  wife  has  deserted  you,  she  has 
gone  with  that  man  who  was  my  brother.  I  renounce 
him,  I  will  never  look  at  him  again.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  this  I  ask  ?  Are  you  going  to  do  what 
any  sane  man  would  do — free  yourself,  give  her  the 
chance  of  becoming  an  honest  woman?  Answer  me." 

Her  eyes  flamed  at  him,  his  stupidity  was  driving  her 
mad. 

"I've  thought  about  all  that,"  he  said.  "I've  thought 
about  it.  It's  early  days  yet.  I  want  time — time  to  do 
the  best  as  I  can  for — for  'Nid." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  you  can  do  for  her — free 
her,"  she  said.  "And  you  owe  it  to  yourself,  too."  She 
paused;  she  might  speak  to  this  man  as  she  could  not 
to  any  other  man. 

"Listen  to  me.  You  have  been  treated  shamefully,  so 
126 


The  Best  for  Her 

have  I.  You  trusted  that  woman,  I  trusted  that  man, 
my  brother;  we  are  both  shamed  and  humiliated.  The 
best  thing  you  can  do  for  her,  for  Enid,  is  to  set  her 
free.  When  you  have  done  so  you  will  need  a  mistress 
in  this  house  of  yours,  some  one  who  understands,  who 
can  help  you  as  a  wife  should.  If  you  find  that  you  do 
need  such  a  woman,  then — then  you  needn't  have  far  to 
look,  Jim." 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  "you  mean  that  if  I  get  rid  of 
'Nid  you'd  be  willing  to  marry  me?" 

"That  is  what  I  mean." 

He  nodded  slowly.  "I  thought  of  that,  too,"  he  said. 
"Only — only  I  want  time — time  to  think.  I  don't 
believe  in  acting  in  no  'urry,  I  want  time  to  think." 

He  turned  to  the  door,  stumbling  against  a  little  table, 
upsetting  it  and  sending  it  and  its  contents  into  ruin 
on  the  ground.  He  did  not  pause  to  look  at  the  damage 
he  had  done;  he  went  out  and  slammed  the  door  after 
him.  Then  he  opened  the  door  again. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  bang  it,"  he  said.  "It  was  the  wind 
as  caught  it."  And  with  this  apology  he  went. 

She  laughed,  laughed  furiously.  The  man  was  hope- 
less, impossible,  a  clod,  a  thing  without  feeling.  Why 
heaven  had  ever  fashioned  such  a  man,  and  moreover 
had  made  him  a  Bevanwood,  she  could  not  think. 

Jim  went  out ;  he  strode  stolidly  down  the  long  avenue ; 
he  came  to  the  road  and  made  his  way  to  the  village. 
At  one  of  the  cottages  in  the  village  he  paused.  As 
usual  the  children  came  flocking  to  him. 

"  'Ere,  little  uns,  go  and  buy  yourself  stick-jaw,"  he 
said.  He  gave  them  a  shilling  and  sent  them  away,  well 
enough  contented. 

"Your  Billy  in,  Mrs.  Wasser?"  he  asked. 

127 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Mrs.  Wasser,  wife  to  Mr.  George  Wasser,  one  of 
Jim's  under-gardeners,  came  to  the  door  drying  her  red 
hands  on  her  apron. 

"My  Billy,  Vs  gone  on  the  Downs,  Sir  James,"  she 
said. 

"Maybe  I'll  find  'im  all  right?"  he  said.  "Every- 
think  all  right?" 

She  smiled.  "Everything's  been  all  right,  Sir  James, 
since  you  come,"  she  said. 

"Got  the  joint  in  for  Sunday?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I — I  'adn't  thought  of  it  yet,  and,  oh — thank  you, 
Sir  James,  I'm  sure,"  she  added. 

"Take  my  advice,"  he  said,  "and  git  beef,  there's  more 
in  beef  than  there  is  in  mutton.  You  don't  'ear  no  talk 
about  the  roast  mutton  of  old  England,  it's  beef  all  the 
time  as  put  England  where  she  is  now,  that  and  beer. 
You  don't  never  'ear  me  running  down  good  honest 
ale.  I  say  a  man  as  does  'is  work  proper  needs  some- 
think  to  keep  up  'is  strength  and  courage,  so "  He 

paused,  conscious  that  he  was  making  a  long  speech. 
"Beef  makes  blood  and  flesh,"  he  said.  "Git  beef." 
Then  he  turned  away  and  the  woman  stared  after  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  they  say  of  him,"  she  said.  "Nor 
I  don't  care,  but  this  I  do  know,  that  I  wish  there  was 
a  few  more  made  like  him." 

And  so  the  man  with  the  impassive  face  and  the  lum- 
bering stride  and  the  aching  heart  went  down  the  sunny 
village  street,  and  at  the  end  of  the  street  where  the 
road  turns  whiter  and  rises  to  the  swell  of  the  Downs,  he 
met  a  small,  freckled,  red-haired  boy  of  about  thirteen. 

"I  been  booking  for  you,  Billy  Wasser,"  he  said. 

"Well,  'ere  I  be,  governor,"  the  boy  said.     "Going 

128 


The  Best  for  Her 

Sir  James  Bevanwood  nodded.    "You  come  with  me, 

I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  he  said.    "I'm  going "    He 

paused.     "Going  away  for  a  bit." 

The  boy's  face  fell. 

"Not  fur,  Billy,"  Jim  said.  "Not  so  fur  as  you  carn't 
pop  in  and  see  me  now  and  a  bit." 

"Oh,  you  mean  there?"  the  boy  said.  "Going  to  live 
there?" 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it,  Billy.  You  see,  it's  like 
this  way  with  me.  I've  got  a  bit  of  thinking  to  do,  a  bit 
of  real  'ard  thinking.  Things  isn't — isn't  what  they 
might  be,  and  I've  got  to  think  a  way  out,  a  best  way 
for — for  'er "  He  paused.  "Best  way  for  every- 
body, and  I  don't  believe  in  doin'  nothing  in  a  'urry.  I 

want  to  think "     He  paused.     "And  when  a  man's 

got  thinking  to  do,  why,  'e  carn't  be  listening  to  chatter 
all  the  time;  a  man's  got  to  be  alone  to  think  prop'ly." 

The  boy  nodded ;  he  looked  at  his  big  friend  with  wise 
blue  eyes. 

"So  you  be  going  down  there  to — do  your  think?" 
he  said. 

"That's  it,  Billy,  that's  the  idea  I  got  into  my  'ead, 
and  you — you're  going  to  'elp  me.  You  see,  I  don't 
want  no  one  to  know  where  I'm  gorn  to,  otherwise  I'd 
'ave — some  of  'em  round  worrying  me.  I  just  want  to 
be  alone,  all  alone.  I've  got  a  deal  of  'ard  thinking  to 
do,  Billy  boy." 

"Where  do  I  come  in,  governor?" 

"That's  it,"  Jim  said.  "Well,  I'll  be  wanting  things. 
I  shan't  want  to  come  'ere  to  get  'em.  I  shan't  want 
no  one  to  know  where  I  am.  You  got  to  tell  your 
mother  I'm  travelling  a  bit  and  I  want  you  to  come  with 
me,  see?" 

129 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

The  boy's  face  beamed.  "And — and  you  mean  you'll 
'ave  me  along  with  you  down  there?" 

"That's  it.  You'll  have  to  fetch  and  carry  for  me. 
We'll  'ave  to  git  what  we  want  over  from  Horswood; 
it's  a  long  tramp,  we'll  'ave  to  git  a  bicycle."  He  paused. 

They  were  on  the  Downs  now.  He  sat  down  suddenly 
on  the  turf  and  brought  out  a  pocket-book.  From  the 
pocket-book  he  selected  a  visiting-card  engraved  "Sir 
James  Bevanwood,  Bart.,  Bevanwood,  Amerhurst,  Sus- 
sex." 

"Billy,  you  got  to  go  back  to  your  mother  and  tell 
*er,"  he  said,  "about  your  coming  with  me.  Say  as  I 
met  you  and  want  you.  Say  you'll  be  away  a  week  or 
two,  maybe  a  month  or  two,  but  you'll  be  all  right  with 
me." 

The  boy  nodded. 

"And  this'll  be  so  as  she'll  know  it's  all  right." 

Jim  nibbled  the  end  of  his  pencil  and  then  wrote 
laboriously : 

"To  MRS.  WASSER, — I  want  your  Billy  to  come 
with  me,  he'll  be  alright  and  wel  looked  after,  don't 
worrie  about  him,  so  no  more  at  present,  from  yours 
truley,  J.  BEVANWOOD." 

He  wrote  this  on  the  back  of  the  card  till  it  over- 
flowed, so  he  finished  it  on  the  front. 

"You  take  that  to  'er  and  I'll  wait  'ere  till  you  come 
back,"  he  said.  And  then  he  stretched  himself  out  on 
the  soft  turf,  and  lay  staring  up  at  the  blue  skies,  and 
already  James  Bevanwood  was  beginning  his  deep,  hard 
thinking  and  the  burden  of  his  thoughts  was  always — 
"What's  the  best  I  can  do  for  'er?" 
130 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    FEAR 

YOU'LL  need  things,"  Geoffrey  said;  "y°u  can  get 
all  you  need  in  London." 

"Then  we  are  going  to  London?"  the  girl  said. 

"At  first;  after  that  we  shall  leave  for  the  sea.  We 
shall  stay  at  Dover  the  night  and  cross  by  the  morn- 
ing boat  to  France." 

"France,  I  never  been  there;  it's  across  the  sea,"  she 
said. 

"You'll  enjoy  every  minute  of  Paris,"  he  said.  "It's 
a  new  life  for  you.  I'm  opening  the  book  of  the  world 
to  you,  'Nid,  and  I  shall  get  my  reward  in  seeing  the 
wonder  and  delight  in  your  sweet  eyes,  darling." 

"Don't,"  she  said.  "Don't  call  me  that,  I  don't  like 
it.  Some'ow  it  seems  to  spoil  everything.  Just  'Nld'll 
do." 

He  smiled  to  himself. 

They  had  walked  across  the  Downs  in  the  early 
morning  to  Horswood,  from  Horswood  they  took  train 
to  London.  He  would  need  things  himself ;  he  must  have 
clothes,  just  enough  to  present  a  creditable  appearance. 
It  gave  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure  to  see  men  in  the  street 
turn  their  heads  for  another  glance  at  the  girl  beside 
him.  They  admired  her  and  envied  him  probably — 
that's  what  he  wanted. 

"She  belongs  to  me,"  he  thought.  "Mine  entirely. 
There's  no  going  back  now." 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

He  went  with  her  to  do  the  shopping.  He  went  to 
the  bank  and  drew  out  the  last  penny  he  had  there. 
He  reckoned  it  would  just  about  see  him  through,  pay 
for  her  needs,  the  trip  and  the  hotel  expenses,  and  then 
Sheila  was  sure  to  send  him  a  remittance,  he  could 
reckon  on  that. 

In  order  that  Sir  James  Bevanwood  should  have  every 
possible  facility  for  prosecuting  his  suit  when  the  time 
came,  he  took  'Nid  to  his  own  chambers. 

His  manservant  made  tea  for  them.  Before  Watson, 
the  man,  he  spoke  unguardedly  of  their  future  move- 
ments. 

"We'll  stay  at  Dover  to-night;  to-morrow  we'll  cross 
to  Paris,"  he  said.  "We'll  have  a  few  weeks  there.  It 
will  be  a  glorious  time,  'Nid,  just  you  and  I  together 
and  alone." 

The  man  stared,  but  he  said  nothing.  What  should 
he  say? 

"Pack  me  all  I  shall  want  for  about  a  month;  don't 
overdo  it,  Watson.  And  if  any  letters  come  for  me 
address  them  to  me  at  the  Hotel  Boulogne,  Paris." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  the  man  said  stiffly.  He  stared  hard 
at  'Nid. 

"Lady  Bevanwood   and   I "   Geoffrey  paused   as 

though  he  had  let  slip  something  that  he  had  not  in- 
tended. He  saw  that  the  man  had  heard  and  he  smiled 
to  himself. 

An  hour  later  they  were  in  the  train  for  Dover,  and 
she,  tired  out,  wondering  a  little,  frightened,  a  little  ill 
at  ease,  fell  asleep.  She  slept  as  soundly  and  as  sweetly 
as  a  child  might,  rocked  and  lulled  by  the  movement  of 
the  train.  And,  watching  her,  a  great  consuming  pas- 
sion for  her  came  to  him. 
132 


The  Fear 

He  watched  the  dark  shadows  of  her  lashes  against 
her  cheeks,  the  red  rose  mouth  of  her,  the  wonderful 
hair,  the  unstudied  grace  of  her  attitude,  the  little  child- 
like hands.  He  bent  forward,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  hands,  softly  so  not  to  waken 
her. 

He  knew  it  was  the  passion,  the  love  of  his  life,  the 
love  compared  with  which  all  other  loves  had  been 
savourless,  commonplace  and  ordinary.  He  even  made 
himself  believe  that  all  the  rubbish  of  love  in  a  previous 
stage  of  existence  had  really  been  between  him  and  her. 
He  wanted  to  believe  it. 

When  she  woke  she  found  his  burning  eyes  on  her 
and  she  shivered  with  a  new  fear,  a  new  dread.  But 
she  was  tired,  the  sleep  had  made  her  dull  and  heavy. 
She  wanted  only  to  rest,  to  go  to  bed  and  rest  and  sleep 
till  the  morning  came. 

They  went  to  an  hotel. 

"Will  you  stop  at  the  same  hotel  as  me?"  she  asked. 

"Will  I  ?  Why,  of  course,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  wish 
it,  'Nid?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I  thought — that  I  thought  about 
it,"  she  said  wearily.  "All  I  want  is  to  go  to  sleep. 

I'm   tired,    tired   to   death.      I   don't   know "      She 

paused ;  she  thought  of  Jim.  She  fancied  she  could  see 
the  pain  and  surprise  in  his  face.  She  did  not  want 
to  hurt  him.  He  had  been  very  good  to  her,  very  good 
except  twice.  Remembering  that  twice  she  shivered 
a  little. 

He  had  ordered  a  private  sitting-room  where  the 
dinner  was  served.  'Nid  had  no  appetite.  She  was 
haunted  by  this  vision  of  Jim,  Jim  suffering,  Jim  with 
pained  eyes.  Yes,  he  had  been  good  to  her  in  many, 

133 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

many  ways.  He  had  not  sent  her  back  to  work  at  the 
laundry,  for  one  thing,  as  some  men  did.  He  had  made 
life  pleasant  for  her.  It  was  Jim  who  had  first  taken 
her  to  see  the  sea. 

"Darling,  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  he  said.  He 
had  been  studying  her  face  eagerly,  his  own  eyes  glow- 
ing. 

She  started.  "I  asked  you  not  to — to  call  me  that," 
she  said  with  quiet  dignity.  "Somehow  it  don't  sound 
right.  I'm  thinking  I'm  tired,  I  want  to  go  to  bed  and  to 
sleep;  my  head  aches  and  I'm  a  bit  worried.  It'll  be 
all  right  in  the  morning.  Can  I  go  now?" 

"Yes,  why  not  ?    Go  now,"  he  said.    He  rose. 

"  'Nid,"  he  cried  suddenly.  "  'Nid."  He  held  out  his 
arms  to  her.  "This  is  what  I  have  been  hoping  for 
and  praying  for.  Just  you  and  I  alone,  darling,  my  be- 
loved." 

His  passion,  so  long  pent  up  and  restrained,  so  long 
held  in  check,  broke  down  all  barriers  now.  He  had  won, 
and  was  eager  to  taste  of  the  fruits  of  his  victory.  He 
had  won,  she  belonged  to  him,  had  cast  off  all  the  world 
to  follow  him.  She  was  here  with  him  alone.  Discre- 
tion and  all  the  cunning  chicanery  and  mock  sentiment 
he  flung  to  the  winds.  She  was  his  now  and  never 
could  she  escape  him. 

He  held  her  in  his  arms,  struggling  a  little,  panting, 
a  trembling  frightened  thing,  and  holding  her,  kissed 
her  upon  the  lips  and  eyes. 

Strong  with  the  passion  that  had  found  expression 
at  last,  her  ^feeble  opposition  was  hopeless.  She  tried 
to  thrust  her  little  hands  into  his  face,  and  then,  realising 
her  feebleness,  she  looked  up,  terror-stricken,  to  plead 
mutely  for  help  and  pity  and  mercy ;  and  looking  up,  she 
134 


The  Fear 

saw  his  eyes,  and  seeing  them,  a  great  loathing  and  a 
great  fear  of  him  came  to  her. 

There  was  that  in  his  eyes  that  would  haunt  her  sleep- 
ing and  waking  for  long,  long  to  come.  There  was  in 
them  an  evil  and  a  meaning  that  even  now  her  brain 
could  not  grasp,  could  not  understand,  but  which  yet 
brought  a  chill  horror  and  great  overwhelming  fear  to 
her. 

"Let  me  go — for  God's  sake,  let — me  go!"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  let  me  go "  And,  fighting  with  her  last  vestige 

of  strength,  she  broke  away  from  him. 

And  then  he  saw  the  look  in  her  face,  the  horror  and 
fear  in  her  eyes,  and  the  mad  passion  of  a  moment  ago 
was  gone.  He  had  frightened  her,  fool  that  he  was,  he 
had  forgotten  caution,  he  had  been  too  impatient. 

"  'Nid,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry — sorry — dear.  I  did  not 
mean  to  hurt  you.  Forgive  me — 'Nid." 

He  stood  there,  clenching  and  unclenching  his  hands. 

"I  won't  offend  again,"  he  said.  "  'Nid,  trust  me,  I 
won't  offend  again ;  it  is  because  I  love  you  so." 

She  was  making  towards  the  door.  Beyond  the  door 
lay  safety.  She  dared  not  look  at  him  again ;  she  knew 
that  towards  him  her  feelings  had  utterly  changed.  Dur- 
ing the  last  minute,  that  minute  when  he  had  held  her 
struggling  and  afraid,  the  great  revulsion  had  come. 
She  hated  him  now  and  feared  him,  but  even  greater 
than  her  fear  was  her  hatred  and  loathing  of  him  for  the 
evil  that  had  peeped  at  her  from  out  his  eyes,  a  look  that 
she  had  never  seen  in  the  eyes  of  James  Bevanwood,  or 
of  any  other  man. 

And  now  there  came  to  her  a  cunning  born  of  her 
desperate  fear.  She  must  escape  him,  leave  him,  and 
yet  he  must  not  guess  at  her  intentions,  or  surely  he  would 

135 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

not  let  her  go.    So  she  turned  to  him  with  a  smile  that 
she  was  desperately  put  to  to  conjure  up. 

"I  am  so — so  tired,"  she  said.  "So  tired — you — you 
moist  forgive  me  if  I  am — stupid — it  is  only  because  I 
am  so  tired." 

He  smiled  indulgently.  "Poor  little  'Nid,"  he  said 
softly.  "Poor  little  girl,  I  was  a  brute  to  you.  I'm 
sorry,  but  you  forgive  me,  dear?" 

"Yes,  I  forgive  you,"  she  said.  "But,  oh,  I  am  so — 
so  tired,  the  day  has  been  so  long." 

She  had  gained  the  door  now,  and  beyond  that  door 
lay  liberty  and  freedom,  and  he  never  guessed.  Indeed, 
he  came  and  opened  the  door  for  her  and  smiled  down 
at  her,  the  slender  little  figure,  white  faced  and  with 
the  great  wistful  eyes  that  she  kept  resolutely  hidden 
from  him  that  he  might  not  see  that  new  expression  that 
had  come  into  them. 

"Good-night,"  he  said.  "Good-night,  my  beloved." 
And  as  he  spoke  he  smiled  at  the  thoughts  that  came  to 
him. 

So  she  passed  out  on  to  the  landing,  but  knowing  he 
was  still  standing  there,  watching  her,  she  turned  to  the 
bedroom  that  she  understood  was  to  be  hers ;  and  then  she 
went  in  and  locked  the  door  on  herself  and  stood  there, 
shaking  and  faint,  leaning  against  the  door  listening  lest 
he  should  follow  her ;  but  he  did  not  come  yet. 

And  so  she  waited  for  many  minutes,  how  long  she 
did  not  know.  The  hat  and  the  cloak  she  had  thrown 
off  still  layv  on  the  bed.  She  went  to  it  and  put  them 
on  and  then  crept  to  the  door  again,  and  with  infinite 
caution  turned  the  key  and  opened  the  door  a  few  inches 
and  looked  out  on  to  the  landing. 
136 


The  Fear 

He  was  not  there;  the  place  was  deserted,  for  it  was 
growing  late,  and  all  the  hotel  was  quiet. 

So,  mastering  her  fear,  she  came  out  and  crept  down 
the  wide  stairs  to  the  hall  where  there  was  only  the 
night  porter,  who  looked  at  her  curiously. 

'Tm  going — going  out,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "My 
head  is  bad,  it  aches  badly.  I  want  to  walk;  the  night 
air'll  do  me  good.  I  shall  be  back  soon." 

He  opened  the  door  to  her  and  she  went  out.  She 
found  herself  in  unfamiliar  streets  under  the  cool  night 
sky.  Once  she  looked  back,  only  once,  and  then  she 
walked  on  and  on,  far  into  the  night,  till  she  had  left 
the  town  behind  her.  She  walked  on  through  deserted, 
silent  country  roads,  through  little  sleeping  hamlets, 
walked  till  the  dawn  was  in  the  sky  and  the  rose  tint  of 
the  new  day  made  the  world  beautiful. 


137 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HOW  JIM   MADE  A  NEW  HOME 

A  BOY  brought  it,  Mrs.  Wasser's  boy.  He  said 
there  was  no  answer  and  he  has  gone." 

Sheila  Qare  nodded.  She  took  the  note.  It  bore  her 
own  name  scrawled  in  the  unformed,  schoolboy  hand 
of  Jim  Bevanwood. 

"What  message  has  the  idiot  sent  me  ?"  she  wondered 
as  she  tore  the  envelope  open. 

As  she  read  her  brow  puckered  in  a  frown,  there  was 
a  lack  of  understanding  in  her  eyes. 

"What  does  it  mean?  What  has  he  gone  for  and 
where  to?  Not — not  to  seek  for  her?  Good  heavens, 
he  couldn't  be  such  a  fool  as  that." 

"DEAR  SHEELA,"  the  letter  ran,  "I'm  going  away 
for  a  bit,  I  want  to  be  alone,  to  do  a  bit  of  thinking. 
Don't  worrie  about  me,  I'm  all  right,  look  after 
yourself  and  have  all  you  want  like  the  place  was 
your  own.  You're  mistress  anyway  till  I  come 
back,  I've  got  to  think  out  the  best  for  every  one, 
including  what  you  said  to  me  to-day,  also  'Nid  and 
him  too.  Yours  truley,  J.  BEVANWOOD." 

"Fool !"  the  woman  said.    She  went  to  the  window  and 
stared  out  into  the  grounds.    Where  had  he  gone,  on  what 
wild,  senseless  chase?    Surely  not — not  to  Paris  to  look 
138 


How  Jim  Made  a  New  Home 

for  'Nid  and  Geoffrey?  She  stamped  her  foot  with  sud- 
den rage.  The  man  was  enough  to  drive  her  mad.  How- 
ever, he  was  gone,  and,  as  he  had  said,  she  was  mistress 
here  till  he  came  back,  at  any  rate — and  then  probably 
afterwards.  But  it  would  have  been  more  satisfactory 
to  have  him  here  under  her  influence. 

She  did  not  like  this  breaking  away,  did  not  like  it 
at  all.  "But  he  will  come  back  soon;  the  fool  will  feel 
lost  without  me  to  advise  him,"  she  thought. 

Jim  Bevanwood  took  quiet  possession.  It  was  his 
own  property.  He  sent  Billy  Wasser  over  to  Horswood. 
It  was  seven  miles,  but  he  knew  that  the'boy  could  trudge 
it  in  little  over  two  hours.  He  had  implicit  faith  in 
Billy's  honesty.  He  provided  Billy  with  more  money 
than  the  youth  had  ever  seen  in  his  life. 

"You  get  a  bike  and  come  back  on  it,  for  one  thing," 
Jim  said.  "Then  you  got  to  'ave  a  few  things  here, 
Billy,  to  be  comfortable.  Git  all  them  things  I've  writ 
down — soap  and  tea  and  sugar  and  bread.  Then  you 
take  this  'ere  bit  of  paper  to  Saunders,  the  furnishing 
shop.  We'll  make  it  real  comfortable  'ere."  He  .had 
thought  of  everything,  or  as  nearly  everything  as  a  man 
can  think  of  when  it  comes  to  housekeeping.  During 
the  coming  days  he  would  realise  that  for  everything 
he  had  thought  of  he  had  forgotten  two  other  necessary 
articles,  but  these  were  merely  details. 

Billy  was  gone  with  the  money  and  the  written  instruc- 
tions, and  Jim  Bevanwood  set  to  work.  He  found  a 
battered  old  pail  which  he  filled  at  the  stream  before  the 
front  door.  He  swamped  the  floor  of  the  sitting-room, 
then  with  his  large  pocket-knife  he  set  to  work  to  trim 
the  creepers  and  ivy  into  something  like  order  over  the 
windows  and  door  of  his  new  home — it  kept  him  occu- 

139 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

pied.  The  time  flew  surprisingly  quickly.  Presently  he 
heard  a  cart  coming  down  the  white  chalk  road  and  he 
stepped  across  the  stream  to  the  broken-down  gate  to 
see  what  it  was.  It  was  Saunders'  cart  from  Horswood 
bringing  him  the  things  he  had  ordered. 

The  man  driving  it  was  a  stranger  to  him,  he  to  the 
man.  Jim  Bevanwood  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  face  well 
blackened  from  the  dust  in  the  ivy  and  looking  generally 
disreputable,  did  not  suggest  Sir  James  Bevanwood  of 
Bevanwood  to  the  man. 

"Hello,  mate,"  he  said.  "Is  this  the  shanty  this  stuff 
is  for?" 

"I  expect  so,"  Jim  said.    "Bring  it  in,  I'll  lend  a  'and/' 

They  carried  the  contents  of  the  cart  into  the  shanty. 
Two  small  iron  bedsteads  with  their  complement  of  sheets 
and  blankets,  a  roll  of  .linoleum,  a  couple  of  brooms,  two 
cane-seated  chairs,  a^dozen  and  one  other  articles,  includ-- 
ing  a  kettle  and  a  good,  useful,  all-round  saucepan. 

"Phew !"  the  man  said.  "You  ain't  living  in  this  'ole, 
are  you,  mate?" 

"Going  to,"  Jim  said,  "for  a  bit.  Out  of  the  world, 
ain't  it?" 

"Fergotten  'ole,  I  call  it,"  the  man  said.  "Some  people 
know  their  own  business  best,"  he  added  thoughtfully. 
He  looked  at  Jim ;  Jie  wondered  if  this  man  was  a  crimi- 
nal hiding  from  the  law  which  he  had  outraged.  There 
was  nothing  very  criminal  in  Jim  Bevanwood's  appear- 
ance. 

"  'Armless  lun-atic,  I  expect,"  the  man  thought  as  he 
drove  away. 

The  arrival  of  the  goods  gave  Jim  something  more 
to  do.  He  set  to  work  with  the  broom;  he  put  up  one 
small  iron  bedstead  in  one  top  room,  the  other  in  the 
140 


How  Jim  Made  a  New  Home 

other.  He  made  the  beds  as  cleverly  as  a  woman  might. 
Sir  James  Bevanwood,  to  the  manner  born,  might  not 
have  understood  the  making  of  a  bed.  Jim  Woods  had 
made  his  own  many  a  score  of  times.  He  had  done  it 
for  himself,  there  was  nothing  strange  to  him  in  all  this. 

Considering  its  natural  drawbacks  he  had  'got  the 
place  very  shipshape  when  Billy  Wasser  came  back  riding 
his  new  bicycle  and  with  a  sack  of  provisions  slung  over 
his  stout  little  shoulders. 

"  'Ow's  it  beginning  to  look,  Billy  ?"  Jim  said. 

"Fine,"  the  boy  said.  "You  been  workin'  all  right, 
ain't  you  ?  Got  the  beds  up  and  all.  What  do  you  think 
of  the  bike  ?" 

"Ripping,"  Jim  said.     "  'Ow  much?" 

"Five  ten;  'e  wanted  five  and  a  'arf  guineas.    I  beat 

'irn  down  the  five  and  six  and  he  wouldn't  gi'  a  bell  in 

• 

neither,  so  I  sneaked  one." 

Jim  frowned  and  shook  his  head.  "You  take  that 
there  bell  back  next  time  you  go  to  Horswood,"  he  said. 
"Sneakin'  ain't  the  game,  Billy." 

"But  after  paying  'im  for  the  bike "  the  boy  com- 
plained. 

"You  ain't  no  right  to  sneak  the  bell,"  Jim  said.  "It 
ain't  right,  Billy,  it's  wrong;  you  take  it  back." 

Billy  looked  at  his  master  resentfully,  then  his  face 
cleared.  No  one,  no  child  could  Jook  resentfully  at  Jim 
Bevanwood  for  long. 

"All  right,  governor,  I'll  ride  over  and  take  it  back 
to-morrow  and  tell  'im  I  made  a  mistake,  the  dirty  'ound." 

For  the  first  time  for  many  months  a  fire  was  lighted 
in  the  little  rusty  old  kitchen  grate.  Billy  Wasser  brought 
in  the  wood,  of  which  there  was  no  lack,  Jim  lighted  it, 
he  boiled  water  and  made  tea,  which  they  drank  without 

141 


milk  for  the  best  of  all  reasons.  He  fried  some  bacon 
and  some  eggs,  which  he  broke  into  the  pan  in  masterly 
fashion. 

They  sat  opposite  one  another  at  a  small  deal  table  and 
beamed  at  one  another. 

"This  is  something  like,"  Billy  Wasser  said.  "You 
ain't  'arf  a  cook,  you  ain't,  governor." 

"I  can  do  a  bit  that  way,"  Jim  said  modestly. 

After  tea  Billy  washed  up  and  Jim  concluded  his 
domestic  arrangements. 

The  sun  went  down  on  them,  the  sweet  evening  closed 
in  on  them.  Here  in  their  dell  they  might  have  been 
ten  thousand  miles  away  from  the  world;  not  a  sound 
came  to  them  but  the  restless  chirping  of  the  birds  finding 
their  refuge  for  the  night  and  the  ripple  of  the  stream 
over  the  broad  stones  before  the  cottage  door. 

Jim  pulled  out  his  pipe  and  sat  down  on  the  doorstep ; 
he  lighted  his  pipe  solemnly. 

"Bed-time,  Billy,"  he  said. 

Billy  expostulated. 

"Bed-time.  Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise,"  Jim  quoted. 
"And "  He  paused.  He  forgot  the  rest ;  it  was  some- 
thing concerning  an  early  worm  he  believed.  "Anyway, 
it's  bed-time,"  he  added.  So  Billy  reluctantly  went.  And 
Jim  sat  there  while  the  twilight  changed  to  darkness  and 
the  stars  came  out  in  the  blue  vault  above  him.  And 

•          • 

presently  the  great,  round,  yellow  moon  rose.  And  sit- 
ting there  smoking  many  pipes,  his  hands  hugging  his 
knees,  Jim  Bevanwood  stared  at  the  stars,  seeking  in- 
spiration. 

"I  got  to.think,"  he  muttered.    "Got  to  think  out  the 
best  way  for  'er  and  me  and  every  one,  Sheila  and  the 
rest,  but  first  and  before  all  poor  little  Kid."    He  sighed. 
142 


How  Jim  Made  a  New  Home 

"Poor  little  kid!  It  isn't  as  if  she  ever  loved  me  that 
way,  like  a  wife,  nor  ever  could,  she  did  not  prop'ly 

understand.  Just  a  kid,  that's  all  she  was.  Adopted " 

He  paused  with  a  wry  smile.  He  remembered  what  his 
mates  at  the  works  had  said.  "  'Ave  you  adopted  her, 
Jim  Woods?"  And  he  had  said  he  had. 

"So  that's  about  it,"  he  muttered.  "I— a-dopted  'er4 
and  I  got  to  see  'er  through,  poor  little  'Nid.  There's 
ways  out  and  ways  out,"  he  muttered.  "The — the  way 
she — she  spoke  about."  He  shuddered.  "Only  it  'uo. 
'urt  'Nid,  'urt  'er  terrible.  She  'ates  anythink  like  that 
and  it  'ud  be  in  the  papers  and  she'd  get  spoke  about, 
I  don't  like  that  way.  There's  another  way."  He  stared 
at  the  great  round  moon.  There  was  another  way,  and 
loving  her  as  he  did  with  the  great,  unselfish  love  of  a  big 
heart,  that  other  way,  terrible  as  it  was,  did  not  seem 
impossible  to  him. 

It  would  free  her  without  shame,  without  scandal. 
And  then  she  could  marry  this  man,  the  man  she  had 
chosen.  It  did  not  strike  him  that  he  was  contemplating 
any  great  sacrifice,  he  just  wanted  to  think  out  the  best 
thing  for  'Nid.  Might  not  this  be  the  best  thing? 

He  knocked  out  his  pipe  presently.  Billy  Wasser  had 
been  asleep  many  hours.  Jim  crept  up  the  creaky  stairs 
to  his  room  and  lay  down  on  the  bed. 

"I  ain't  going  to  do  nothink  in  a  'urry,"  he  said.  "It's 
'urrying  as  spoils  everything.  I've  got'to  think  it  out.  I'd 

be  sorry  for  many  things,  sorry  to "  He  paused. 

"Oh,  God,"  he  whispered.  "God,  it's  a  beautiful  world 

you  made  for  us — yet  if  it's  the  best  way — for  'er " 

And  then  he  fell  asleep. 


143 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  ROAD  HOME 

THE  dainty  little  shoes  were  very  ragged,  the  pretty 
dress  was  heavy  with  the  chalk  dust  from  the  white, 
winding,  never-ending  roads.  She  trudged  on.  She  had 
left  the  sea  behind  her,  the  sea  she  had  loved  and  yearned 
for ;  now  she  felt  a  kind  of  horror  of  it.  As  she  walked 
on  in  the  burning  sunshine  she  shivered  now  and  again, 
shivered  as  though  with  the  cold.  She  had  made  a  mis- 
take, a  big  mistake,  and  had  not  realised  it  till — till  he 
had  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips, 
and  she  had  seen  that  something,  in  his  eyes.  Then 
something — something  seemed  to  go  wrong  with  her 
world,  with  her  thoughts. 

"He — he  was  horrible,"  she  said.  She  said  it  aloud. 
"Horrible."  She  shuddered.  "I  didn't  know,  I  thought 
he  was  different.  I  s'pose,  come  to  that,  they  are  all 
alike — horrible."  She  shuddered  again  and  stooped  to 
pick  a  wild  flower.  She  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  and 
then  threw  it  away.  She  was  not  thinking  of  it  at, all. 

"I  s'pose,"  she  muttered,  "I'm  a 'bit  different  to  other 
girls,  to  them — to  those  who  worked  at  the  Snowflake. 
I  didn't  never  seem  to  understand  'em.  Now  I  think  I 
know  why — perhaps  I  am  wrong  and  they  are  right,  I 
don't  know.*  She  paused.  She  sat  down  on  the  bank 
beside  the  road  and  looked  down  at  her  ragged  little 
feet. 
144 


The  Road  Home 

How  far  had  she  walked?  She  had  not  the  faintest 
idea.  It  was  not  last  night,  nor  yet  the  night  before  that 
she  had  broken  away  from  the  hotel  by  the  sea,  that  was 
three  nights  ago  now,  and  since  then  she  had  plodded 
on  and  on.  She  had  no  money,  not  a  penny.  A  woman 
in  a  farmhouse  had  given  her  her  first  breakfast,  had 
invited  her  to  stay  if  she  liked  and  do  some  housework. 
'Nid  had  stayed  the  better  part  of  the  day,  earned  her 
dinner,  and  had  then  set  out  again.  Her  first  idea  had 
been  London  and  the  Snowflake  again;  then  she  had 
put  it  out  of  her  mind.  She  did  not  feel  inclined  to 
exchange  the  country  for  the  smoky  town,  she  hated  the 
town. 

No,  she  would  not  go  to  London.  Then  where  ?  And 
then  she  remembered  a  little  broken-down,  half-ruined 
cottage  in  a  dip  of  the  Downs,  a  stream  that  ran  musically 
before  a  broken  doorway.  And  remembering,  she  grew 
homesick,  homesick  for  the  place. 

Why  not  go  there?  She  could  go  there.  Of  course, 
when  she  reached  there  she  would  not  be  able  to  stay 
without  food  or  money,  or  bed  or  anything.  Still  it 
was  something  definite,  it  was  a  goal  to  be  won. 

So  she  trudged  on,  taking  many  a  wrong  road,  some- 
times getting  farther  and  still  farther  from  her  destina- 
tion and  then  .picking  up  the  road  again.  And  so  the 
days  had  passed;  she  had  slept  out  under  a  stack  one 
night,  in  an  empty  barn  another. 

There  was  no  hurry,  but  it  was  comforting  to  know 
she  had  some  object  in  view.  Sooner  or  later  she  would 
find  the  little  cottage  in  the  hollow  of  the  Downs.  But 
yet  there  was  no  haste. 

People  were  good  to  her  on  her  way.  There  is  no 

145 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

more  open-hearted  peasantry  in  the  world  than  that  which 
finds  its  living  on  the  rolling  South  Downs. 

To-night  at  sunset  she  tapped  on  the  door  of  a  cottage ; 
a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms  came  out  and  stared 
at  her. 

"Well,  my  girl?"  she  said. 

"I'm  hungry,"  'Nid  said  quietly;  "couldn't  you  give 
me  some  work  to  do,  anything  just  for  something J:o  eat?" 

"Come  inside,"  the  woman  said. 

'Nid  dragged  her  weary  little  feet  into  the  cottage  room. 
The  table  was  laid  for  a  meal. 

"Sit  you  down ;  you've  come  a  long  way." 

'Nid  nodded.  "And  I'm  tired  and  hungry,  yet  I  can 
work.  I  can  scrub  and  clean  or  do  a  bit  of  washing  for 
you — that's  what  I'm  best  at,  washing." 

"Where  do  you  sleep  at  night?"  the  woman  asked. 

"Oh,  sleeping  don't  matter — anywhere,"  'Nid  said.  "I 
slept  under  a  stack  and  in  a  barn ;  a  hedge  is  good  enough. 
One  can  always  sleep.  It  isn't  that,  it's  getting  some- 
thing to  eat  now  and  again." 

The  door  opened  and  a  man  came  out.  He  looked  at 
'Nid. 

"  'Oo  is  it?"  he  said  briefly. 

His  wife  explained. 

"She  be  welcome,"  he  said  briefly.  He  sat  down  to  the 
table  and  took  the  baby  from  the  woman.  He  nursed  it 
while  she  laid  the  meal.  He  never  spoke  to  'Nid,  hardly 
looked  at  her.  He  had  said  she  was  welcome  and  that, 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  ended  the  matter. 

Cold  boiled  bacon  and  good  bread  and  butter  and  a 
cup  of  tea  made  a  meal  for  'Nid.  When  it  was  over  she 
asked  for  the  work  she  was  to  do. 

"There's  no  work,"  the  man  said.  "You're  welcome  to 
146 


The  Road  Home 

what  you  had.  It  ain't  much,  but  there  it  is.  Them  as 
ain't  got  much  ain't  got  much  to  give.  You're  going? 
Good-night." 

She  moved  to  the  door ;  the  darkness  had  settled  down, 
the  stars  were  out. 

"Where  are  you  sleeping  to-night?"  the  woman  asked 
her  again. 

"Anywhere,  it  don't  matter,"  'Nid  said.  "Only  I  would 
have  worked  willingly  for  you  to  make  up " 

"That's  all  right— well " 

"Is  it  far  to  Horswood  ?"  'Nid  asked  suddenly. 

"Horswood,  don't  know  it.  Jack,"  she  called,  "how 
fur  is  it  to  Horswood?" 

"Horswood?"     He  came  to  the  door.     "Horswood? 

I  know  a  Horswood "    He  paused.    "It's  miles  and 

miles,  it's  back  of  Chichester  somewhere,  past  Little 
'Ampton  and  Arundel — oh,  miles,  twenty,  thirty  maybe 
I  know  of  'Orswood  as  I  used  to  court  a  gel  whose  people 

come  from  there "     He  paused  and  looked  at  his 

wife. 

"Good-night,"  he  said  abruptly  and  turned  back  into 
the  cottage. 

And  so  'Nid  started  on  her  journey  again. 

Miles — and  miles — and  miles.  She  slept  under  a  hedge 
that  night  and  woke  in  the  yellow  primrose  of  the  dawn. 
She  bathed  before  the  world  was  awake  in  a  stream 
that  turned  a  great  moss-grown  millwheel. 

Yokels  going  very,  very  early  to  their  work  might  have 
had  something  to  tell  about  for  the  rest  of  their  days  had 
they  seen  the  little  slim  white  figure  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream.  Who  in  Sussex  does  not  believe  in  the  fairies 
and  the  nymphs  and  dryads  that  come  out  of  the  woods, 
and  mermaids  that  come  out  of  the  foam? 

147 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

But  no  one  saw  'Nid,  and  so  local  superstition  did 
not  get  the  fillip  it  might  have  secured.  She  dressed 
herself  in  her  dust-heavy  clothes  and  stepped  out  again 
on  the  white  road.  But  she  had  cast  the  worn-out  shoes 
behind  her  for  ever  and  henceforth  went  barefooted. 

Miles  and  miles  and  miles.  She  often  lost  her  way  and 
went  a  day's  journey  in  the  wrong  direction,  but  it  did 
not  matter.  Sooner  or  later  she  would  find  the  cottage 
down  in  the  dell.  Not  yet,  not  for  weeks  jperhaps,  months 
maybe — it  all  depended  on  Fate.  There  was  no  hurry, 
none  in  the  world. 

When  a  big  town  lay  directly  in  her  route  she  made 
a  wide  detour  to  avoid  it.  It  cost  her  many  miles,  but 
she  must  avoid  the  big  towns.  People  might  look  ques- 
tioningly  at  her  little  bare  feet  in  the  big  towns.  Out 
here  on  the  Downs  where  the  soft  grass  was  good  to  walk 
on  it  did  not  matter,  but'the  pavements  of  the  towns  would 
hurt  these  small  feet  of  hers,  just  as  did  the  flints  when, 
perforce,  she  must  travel  by  the  road,  so  the  tender  skin 
was  cut  and  bruised;  and  sometimes  because  the  pain 
was  so  great  she  had  to  rest  long  hours  by  the  way. 

Still  she  crept  on,  making  slowly  to  her  goal,  missing 
her  way,  taking  many  extra  miles  to  avoid  what  she  did 
not  wish  to  meet. 

To-day  she  lay  out  on  the  soft  green  turf  with  the 
golden  sunshine  about  her.  Below  her  lay  Lewes;  she 
could  see  the  great,  square,  ugly  prison,  but  did  not 
know  what  it  was.  So,  too,  could ^she  see  the  ruins  of 
Lewes'  ancient  castle.  Great  fights  have  been  fought 
here,  noble  de.eds  done  in  the  old  far-off  days.  There 
are  relics  of  those  battles  still  to  be  found  out  here  on  the 
green  Downs,  if  one  but  seeks  for  them,  some  rust-eaten 
scrap  of  metal  that  once  might  have  been  sword  or  spear- 
148 


The  Road  Home 

head  or  a  fragment  of  some  warrior's  head-piece.  Gal- 
lant, stirring  times  has  the  old  castle  seen,  but  now  it 
stands  in  its  decay  overlooking  the  most  peaceful  valley 
in  all  the  green  south  country.  Eastward  the  hills  fall 
to  the  valley  of  the  Ouse,  that  dull  brown  river  that 
flows  sluggishly  to  the  sea;  there  in  the  valley  good 
Sussex  cattle  feed  in  the  low  meadows  where  the  grass 
grows  so  thick  and  green.  And  then  the  broken  hills 
claim  their  own  again  and  rise  to  even  greater  heights, 
their  sides  in  many  a  place  scarred  by  the  cliffs  of  chalk 
that  gleam  whitely  in  the  sun's  light. 

And  now,  breaking  on  the  peace  and  stillness  of  it 
all,  comes  a  discordant  note,  the  shrill  scream  of  an 
engine.  With  a  puff  of  white  smoke  the  train  comes 
crawling  through  the  valley,  and  so  passes  on  its  way  to 
Newhaven  and  the  sea,  and  presently  is  gone,  leaving 
behind  it  a  floating  trail  of  white,  and  once  again  the 
valley  is  given  over  to  the  red  cattle  and  the  brown  river 
and  silence. 

A  shepherd  tending  his  flocks  told  her  her  way. 
Brighton  lay  directly  west;  to  avoid  it  she  must  strike 
across  the  Downs  and  come  out  at  Clayton,  then  take 
the  road  under  the  Downs  beyond  Poynings  to  Edburton 
and  Beeding.  Horswood  he  had  never  heard  of,  but  if  it 
was  Chichester  way  she  would  be  all  right  if  she  kept 
on  due  west;  and  keeping  the  Downs  between  her  and 
the  sea  she  would  avoid  the  towns  such  as  Brighton  and 
Worthing. 

She  slept  that  night  in  the  base  of  a  ruined  windmill 
and  lay  listening  to  the  rats  that  played  about  near  her, 
but  she  was  not  afraid.  She  was  only  tired  and  very, 
very  supremely  in  need  of  rest,  and  in  spite  of  the  burn- 
ing, throbbing  pain  of  her  feet,  she  slept  serenely  and 

149 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

undisturbed  and  woke  to  another  brilliant  day,  another 
long  day  of  journeying.  And  she  had  kept  no  count  of 
the  days  that  had  passed.  She  did  not  know  whether  it 
was  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  or  any  other  day  in 
the  week. 

Sometimes  she  was  very,  very  hungry,  sometimes  it 
hurt  her  to  go  unwashed  for  lack  of  water,  and  there 
were  but  few  dew-ponds  on  the  Downs.  Once  in  a 
cottage  a  woman  gave  her  an  old  pair  of  shoes  in  pity 
for  her  small,  bare,  wounded  feet  and  that  helped  her 
much,  though  the  shoes  were  large  and  clumsy  and  often 
she  had  to  stop  to  collect  one  that  had  dropped  by  the 
way. 

"Horswood?"  a  man  said — it  was  in  the  glow  of  the 
sunset.  She  had  come  on  him  tying  faggots  in  a  coppice. 
He  paused  and  straightened  his  back  and  lifted  a  hairy, 
brawny  arm. 

"Horswood,  it's  about  six  miles,"  he  said. 

So  she  was  near  the  end  of  her  long,  long  journey 
now,  very  near,  only  six  miles  and  then  seven  more  to 
the  cottage,  and  then — what?  But  her  thoughts  did 
not  go  beyond  the  cottage;  perhaps  she  would  shelter 
there,  lie  down  and  rest.  She  was  so  tired  now. 

She  looked  back.  The  man  had  started  tying  his  fag- 
gots again.  He  had  made  a  fire  and  the  blue  smoke  was 
curling  up  against  the  brown-purple  background  of  trees. 

Presently  the  man  bundled  his  last  faggot,  bound  it 
and  flung  it  aside,  then  straightened  himself  and  picked 
Mp  his  earthenware  jar  and  his  basket  and  trudged  away 
into  the  coming  night.  And  'Nid  crept  back.  She 
dragged  the  bundles  of  faggots  together  and  made  a 
little  shelter.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  companionship 
in  the  fire,  even  though  it  was  nearly  out.  Then  she  lay 


The  Road  Home 

down  and  slept,  and  woke  in  the  bright  sunshine  of  the 
early  morning  and  crept  out  of  her  shelter  to  see  the 
rabbits  playing. 

She  watched  them  as  they  sat  up  and  cleaned  themselves 
with  their  paws.  They  saw  her  and  turned  large,  liquid, 
wondering  eyes  on  her  and  wrinkled  their  funny  little 
noses  at  her,  then  with  a  whisk  of  a  white  tail  they  were 
gone,  and  she  laughed,  for  even  the  rabbits  were  some- 
thing and  she  was  very,  very  lonely. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   BRAMBLE 

NEVER  had  a  man  contemplated  self-destruction  in 
a  calmer,  saner  and  more  impersonal  manner  than 
Jim  Bevanwood  did.  His  mind  was  entirely  serene.  The 
step  into  the  unknown  did  not  fill  him  with  dread.  The 
only  question  he  must  finally  decide  for  himself  was 
whether  it  would  be  better  for  'Nid.  It  was  just  'Nid 
he  was  thinking  of.  She  had  made  a  mistake  when  she 
married  him,  or  rather  the  mistake  had  been  his. 

He  had  always  known  that  'Nid  had  not  desired  to 
marry  him,  but  he  had  extracted  the  promise  to  do  so 
from  her  and  she  had  kept  it.  That  'Nid  could  do  any- 
thing else  than  keep  a  promise  was  impossible.  And  now 
the  question  was  whether  it  would  not  be  a  great  deal 
better  for  'Nid  if  he  ceased  to  exist. 

He  did  not  sit  down  and  mope  over  it;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  rose  early.  He  set  to  work  cleaning  out  the 
cottage.  He  let  Billy  Wasser  sleep  on — "Kids  want 
more  sleep  than  us  grown  up  'uns,"  he  thought.  So 
he  got  the  pail  and  filled  it  at  the  stream  and  "slooshed" 
— as  he  called  it — out  the  little  sitting-room  kitchen,  mak- 
ing it  in  a  rare  muddle.  Then  with  the  hard  new  broom 
he  drove  the  water  out  over  the  door-sill.  He  took  his 
knife  and  again  trimmed  the  creepers  into  something 
like  order,  and  all  the  time  he  whistled  to  himself.  Any 
one  to  see  him  would  fancy  that  he  was  utterly  care  free. 
152 


The  Bramble 

"If  she  loves  'im  and  'e  'er,"  he  thought,  "I'm  only 
in  the  way,  she  can't  marry  'im  with  me  about.  It's 
just  that,  I'm  in  the  way.  I  ain't  pertickler  wanted, 
never  was.  I  expect  Billy  'ud  miss  me  a  bit.  I  got  an 
idea — I'll  make  a  will  and  leave  this  'ere  place  to  Billy. 
He'd  like  it,  'e's  a  good  little  kid.  That  reminds  me,  'e's 
got  to  take  that  bell  back  to  Horswood  to-day."  Jim 
shook  his  head.  "Stealing  ain't  no  good,  not  even  if  you 
calls  it  nicking.  Nicking  and  stealing,  it's  just  the  same 
thing,  only  different  names.  I  wonder  where  she  is  now 
and  how  she's  enjoying  'erself  ?  Of  course,  'im  knowing 
all  about  books  and  poets  and  all  that,  she's  bound  to  be 
more  interested  in  'im  than  in  a  chap  like  me.  I  didn't 
never  ought  to  'ave  married  'Nid,  I  ought  to  'ave  known 
I  wasn't  'er  sort.  A-dopted  'er,  that's  about  what  I  done. 
Come  out  of  it."  He  hacked  out  a  great  thick  bramble 
that  grew  straight  across  one  of  the  little  iron-framed 
windows. 

"That'll  let  in  a  bit  more  light  and  air — that's  what 
is  wanted,  light  and  air,"  Jim  muttered.  "Strikes  me  I'm 
somethink  like  this  bramble,  big  and  strong  and  ugly, 
growing  straight  across  the  light,  getting  in  every  one's 
way,  shutting  out  the  sunshine." 

He  nodded  his  head.  "Shutting  the  sunshine  out  of 
'er  life,  that's  about  it." 

He  pursed  his  lips  up  and  began  to  whistle  in  a  hope- 
lessly tuneless  way. 

"There,  it's  gone  now  and  the  sun  shines  in  through 
the  window  and  it'll  dry  the  floor  and  make  the  place 
smell  sweeter.  That's  it,  if  a  thing's  in  the  way,  'ack 
it  out."  He  nodded  his  head.  His  existence  and  that 
of  the  bramble  seemed  synonymous.  As  the  branch  had 
shut  the  light  and  air  out  of  the  little  kitchen,  so  he  was 

153 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

shutting  the  light  and  air  out  of  'Nid's  life.  He  gone,  the 
sun  could  shine  in  on  her,  she  would  be  free  and  happy, 
she  could  marry  the  man  of  her  choice. 

Jim  Bevanwood  sighed.  He  ceased  work  for  a  time 
and  stood  leaning  against  the  doorpost  and  stared  at  the 
sparkling  stream.  Just  where  he  saw  it  it  ran  through 
a  bed  of  thickly  growing  green  stuff — ground  elder,  cow 
parsley,  golden  dandelions  and  kingcups,  starlike  daisies 
and  blue  forget-me-nots,  the  broad  leaved  dock  and  the 
deeper  green  of  the  stinging  nettles.  Through  all  this 
the  stream  ran,  a  silver  thread,  here  and  there  flashing 
into  gold  where  the  sun  filtered  through  the  over-arching 
trees  and  caught  the  ripple  of  the  water. 

"All  this,"  Jim  said.  It  came  to  him  that  this  earth 
was  a  very  sweet  and  lovely  place,  a  good  place  to  live  in. 
He  had  not  the  slightest  desire  to  die,  but  there  was  'Nid 
to  consider. 

"One  thing,"  he  muttered;  "she  ain't  got  to  think  I 
done  it  for  her  sake,  that  'ud  worry  'er.  I  got  to  find  some 
way  of  finishing  it  up  so's  she  nor  any  one  will  ever 
guess." 

That  was  the  trouble — he  had  not  a  mind  given  to  cun- 
ning and  scheming. 

"There's  got  to  be  a  accident,"  he  muttered.  But  could 
one  meet  with  an  accident  in  such  a  place  as  this?  If 
the  stream  was  but  a  river,  deep  and  flowing  fast — but 
no  man,  unless  he  was  helplessly  intoxicated,  could  find 
death  by  drowning  in  such  a  trickle  as  this.  Jim  sighed ; 
he  looked  perplexed. 

"S'posing  there  was  rats  'ere  ?"  he  thought.  "S'posing 
Billy  was  to  get  me  somethink  for  'em  and  I  made  a  mis- 
take— it's  been  done  before."  The  idea  seemed  a  good 
one  to  him,  his  imagination  could  not  achieve  anything 
154 


The  Bramble 

better.  Rat  poison  and  a  mistake  and  then  'Nid  would  be 
free,  the  bramble  would  be  removed  and  the  sunlight 
would  stream  in  on  her. 

"That's  about  it,"  Jim  thought. 

Billy  Wasser  with  sleepy  eyes  stood  before  him.  "I 
thought  you'd  got  some  one  'ere,"  he  said.  "  'Eard  you 
muttering  and  a-talking  to  some  one."  He  looked  about 
him. 

"I  were  talking  to  myself,"  Jim  said.  "Billy  Wasser, 
you  ain't  washed  yourself." 

"Didn't  'ave  no  water,"  Billy  said. 

Jim  pointed  to  the  stream.  "You  jest  off  with  your 
clothes  and  woller  in  it,"  he  said. 

Billy  demurred,  but  eventually  did  as  he  was  bidden. 
He  stripped  and  rolled  on  the  warm  stones  in  the  bed 
of  the  brook  and  the  shining  water  rippled  over  him. 
Billy  Wasser  was  not  beautiful,  but  stripped  and  with  his 
skin  sparkling  with  water  drops  he  seemed  to  fit  into  the 
picture. 

Meanwhile  Jim  went  in  and  prepared  breakfast.  When 
he  and  Billy  were  seated,  one  at  each  end  of  the  table, 
Jim  stared  hard  at  Billy.  He  was  trying  to  say  some- 
thing, the  saying  of  which  was  difficult.  He  turned  red 
and  hesitated,  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it. 

As  a  liar  Jim  Bevanwood  did  not  shine,  he  told  a  lie 
but  rarely  and  always  with  a  sense  of  self -consciousness. 

"Billy,"  Jim  said. 

"Yes?" 

"  'Ow  about  rats  ?"  Jim  said. 

"Ah,"  Billy  said.    "Water  rats?" 

Jim  grasped  at  the  chance.  "Yes,"  he  said;  "water 
rats,  bound  to  be  water  rats  in  a  place  like  this,  I — I  fancy 
I  see  one  this  morning." 

155 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Very  likely,"  Billy  said. 

"We  did  ought  to  do  somethink  about  'em,"  Jim  said. 
"Next  they'll  be  stealing  our  food." 

Billy  nodded.  "  'Ow  about  shooting  'em?  Shooting 
with  an  air-gun  ?  Where  I  got  the  bike  they  sell  air-guns." 
His  eyes  glinted  with  eagerness. 

Jim  shook  his  head.  "Poison's  the  best  for  them," 
he  said,  getting  to  his  subject. 

"You'd  get  some  sport  with  an  air-gun,"  Billy  said; 
"and  you  won't  with  no  poison." 

"Poison,"  Jim  said  decidedly.  "That's  what  it's  got  to 
be.  I  ain't  no  shot  with  a  air-gun,  Billy.  You're  going  to 
Horswood  about  that  bell  this  morning." 

"I  s'pose  so,"  Billy  grunted.  "I'll  pay  for  it,  and  tell 
the  man  as  I  took  it  by  mistake." 

"No,"  Jim  said;  "you  tell  'im  the  truth,  say  you 
nicked  it  and  you  are  sorry  and  'ave  come  to  pay  for  it. 
You  done  a  wrong  thing  stealing  it,  Billy;  you  ain't 

going  to  put  it  right  by  telling  no  lies  about "     He 

paused  suddenly.  Was  he  not  as  great  a  liar  as  Billy, 
even  worse?  Had  he  not  stated  that  he  thought  he  had 
seen  a  rat  when  he  knew  he  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
kind? 

"And  then  you  get  the  rat  poison,"  Jim  said. 

Billy  nodded. 

It  was  done.  Jim  drew  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  felt  pleased 
with  himself  at  the  cunning  and  cleverness  he  had  dis- 
played. Billy  Wasser  had  not  the  slightest  idea  in  the 
world  that  he,  Jim  Bevanwood,  was  bent  on  self-destruc- 
tion. 'Nid  would  never  know,  no  one  would  ever  guess. 

"Billy,"  Jrm  said,  "I  s'pose  there's  all  sorts  of  shops 
in  Horswood?" 

"Yes,  a  good  few." 
156 


The  Bramble 

"I  been  thinking,"  Jim  said,  "I  been  thinking,  Billy, 
now  I  got  property  and  like  that,  I  did  ought  to  make  a 
will.  Life's  uncertain "  He  stared  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  avoid  seeing  Billy.  "Life's  very  uncertain.  In 

the  midst  of  life  you  are  in  death "  He  had  heard 

that  somewhere.  "Billy,  I  been  thinking  I  ought  to  make 

a  will "  He  paused  and  looked  at  Billy  anxiously, 

wondering  if  Billy's  suspicions  would  be  aroused  now, 
but  Billy  went  on  with  his  eating. 

"That's  it,  a  will,"  Jim  said.  "Some  of  them  shops 
sells  forms  printed — 'This  is  my  last  will  and  testyment.' 
You  try  and  get  me  one  of  them  forms,  Billy,  it  'ud  be 
a  help." 

Billy  nodded ;  the  matter  seemed  of  very  slight  impor- 
tance to  him. 

Half  an  hour  later  Billy  mounted  his  bicycle  and  rode 
away  to  Horswood. 

"Don't  forget  about  the  rat  stuff  and  the  will,"  Jim 
called  after  him.  Billy  waved  and  vanished  in  a  cloud 
of  chalk  dust  from  the  road. 

"That's  all  right,"  Jim  said  to  himself.  He  smiled 
pleasantly  as  one  who  has  achieved  his  purpose  by  great 
cleverness  and  cunning. 

He  would  have  everything  he  had  in  the  world  left 
to  'Nid,  except  this  cottage,  and  that  was  for  Billy.  Then 
there  would  be  an  accident  in  which  the  rat  poison  would 
play  a  part  and  so  the  matter  would  be  comfortably  con- 
cluded. He  felt  as  a  man  feels  who  has  had  a  great 
weight  lifted  from  his  shoulders.  He  had  nothing  further 
to  trouble  himself  about,  the  bramble  would  soon  be  re- 
moved. 

And  now,  with  nothing  on  his  mind,  Jim  Bevanwood 
whistled  as  he  worked  about  the  little  place.  He  had 

157 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

hammer,  nails,  saw,  plane,  and  a  chisel.  There  was  much 
to  be  done — the  old  door  to  take  down,  mend  and  re-hang, 
the  windows  to  see  to,  a  dozen  and  one  other  things.  He 
whistled  cheerily  as  he  worked.  Since  he  was  going  to 
leave  the  cottage  to  Billy  he  must  see  that  it  was  put  into 
something  like  order. 

That  morning  Jim  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly.  He  had 
nothing  on  his  mind.  He  had  decided  and  he  had  prepared 
the  means  for  carrying  out  his  ideas,  therefore  he  had 
nothing  to  worry  him  and  he  did  not  worry. 

"I'd  'a  liked  to  'ave  made  a  neat  little  bridge  over  the 
stream  to  the  door,"  he  thought,  "only  I  s'pose  I  shan't 
'ave  time — and  then  'ow  about  a  porch?  A  porch  'ud 
look  well  with  some  of  them  wild  things  climbing  over  it 
and  it  'ud  be  nice  to  sit  in  when  the  evening  comes."  But 
it  would  not  be  for  him,  he  would  need  no  porch  to  sit  in. 
Billy  and  Billy's  children  might  sit  in  the  porch,  though. 
Billy's  wife  would  find  it  useful,  she  could  sit  here  in 
the  porch  and  knit  or  sew  and  watch  Billy's  children. 
Then  when  Billy  came  home  from  work  she  could 
daintily  pick  her  way  across  the  rustic  bridge  to  meet 
Billy. 

Jim's  eyes  glistened — Billy  was  a  lucky  fellow.  If 

only  he  and  'Nid .  He  gave  himself  an  angry  jerk. 

He  was  a  fool  to  think  about  such  things.  'Nid  had  never 
cared  for  him,  somehow  she  had  always  been  frightened 
of  him.  Very  likely  she  would  be  a  bit  sorry  when  she 
heard  about  that  accident,  the  mistake  he  had  made  con- 
cerning the  rat  poison. 

Of  course  he  would  not  do  it  at  once,  he  would  have 

to  wait  a  few  days.    If  he  made  a  mistake  about  the  rat 

poison  immediately  Billy  bought  it  people  might  suspect. 

That  would  not  do.    A  few  days  more  or  less  would  not 

158 


The  Bramble 

matter  and  he  had  set  his  mind  on  the  porch  and  the 
bridge.  How  would  it  be  if  he  completed  the  porch  and 
got  the  bridge  almost  done — not  quite?  A  man  would 
not  go  and  kill  himself  when  he  was  half-way  through  a 
job;  the  fact  that  he  had  not  quite  finished  the  bridge 
would  remove  the  last  vestige  of  suspicion.  But  all  the 
same,  he  might  have  all  the  timbers  ready  cut  and  every- 
thing ready  to  put  into  place  so  that  even  Billy  himself 
might  complete  it. 

Jim  Bevanwood  began  to  feel  a  new  respect  for  him- 
self. He  had  never  guessed  what  a  really  deep  and 
cunning  rascal  he  was.  Here  he  was  plotting  and  plan- 
ning to  throw  dust  into  the  eyes  of  a  suspicious  police 
and  public  with  all  the  craft  and  cunning  of  a  finished 
criminal.  He  laughed  to  himself  joyously. 

As  he  was  going  to  make  the  great  sacrifice  he  might 
as  well  make  it  with  a  good  heart.  It  was  for  'Nid's 
sake,  it  was  to  make  her  life  happier,  it  was  to  remove 
the  bramble  that  obstructed  the  sunlight  and  air.  What 
better  use  could  he  make  of  his  life  than  to  lay  it  down 
to  bring  happiness  to  the  woman  he  loved  with  all  the 
generosity  of  a  heart  utterly  without  selfishness? 


159 


CHAPTER  XXII 

JIM  FACES  FAILURE 

BILLY  came  back  white  as  any  miller,  covered  with 
the  chalky  dust  from  the  Downs  road.    He  had  paid 
for  the  bell  and  had  a  wordy  warfare  with  the  vendor 
of  it.    "Told  him  off,"  he  said  to  Jim. 

"I  'ope  you  told  the  truth  and  said  you  was  sorry  about 
it,"  Jim  said. 

Billy  nodded. 

"And  'ow  about  them  other  things?"  Jim  said  with  a 
fine  affectation  of  indifference.  "Let's  see,  what  were 
they?  Oh,  rat  poison  and — and  a  will  form,  wasn't  it?" 

"  'Ere's  the  form— threepence,"  Billy  said.  "It's  got 
bits  printed  and  the  rest  you  got  to  fill  in  and  get  some 
one  to  witness  it." 

"You'll  do  that  for  me,  Billy?"  Jim  said. 

"And  the  man  said  as  'ow  the  person  as  witnessed  it 
must  not  be  one  going  to  get  anything  by  the  will,"  Billy 
said. 

"Oh !"  Jim's  jaw  dropped.  "I  meant  you  to  'ave  this 
cottage,  Billy,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  you  won't  be  able 
to  'ave  it  if  you  was  to  sign  your  name." 

"The  carter  could  sign,  'e  passes  three  times  a  week; 
'e'll  be  along^  to-morrow — Nick  Wickens  'is  name  is." 

"Then  you  watch  out  for  him  to-morrow,  Billy,  and 
bring  'im  'ere,"  Jim  said.     "I'd  like  you  to  'ave  the 
cottage." 
160 


Jim  Faces  Failure 

Billy  nodded.    He  was  not  excited  at  the  prospect. 

"What  about  the  orther  thing,  the — the  poison,  wasn't 
it?"  Jim  asked. 

"Oh,  ah!"  Billy  brought  out  a  packet  from  his 
shabby  pocket.  He  laid  it  on  the  table  and  Jim's  heart 
sank.  He  had  hoped  for  something  in  a  bottle — bottles 
are  so  easily  mistaken  one  for  another  in  the  darkness. 
What  was  this  that  Billy  had  brought?  He  opened  it 
and  found  a  pot,  inside  the  pot  was  a  very  small  quantity 
of  some  vile,  sticky,  dirty  brown,  evil-smelling  stuff. 

"What's  this?"  Jim  asked. 

"Rat  poison — you  got  to  put  it  on  bread  and  leave  it 
about  and  the  rats  get  it." 

"Couldn't  you  'a  got  something  in  a  bottle?"  Jim 
asked. 

Billy  shook  his  head.  "No,  this  is  all  they  got,"  he 
said.  "Besides,  they  say  it  only  'urts  rats.  If  chickens 
and  dogs  get  'old  of  it  it  don't  'urt  'em." 

Jim  felt  a  sense  of  sickening  disappointment,  of  per- 
sonal loss.  His  plan  had  failed.  The  rat  poison  would 
not  hurt  him.  If  chickens  and  dogs  could  partake  of 
it  with  impunity  of  what  earthly  use  would  it  be  to  him? 
He  must  think  again.  Anyhow,  he  had  the  will  form, 
he  could  carry  out  the  first  part  of  his  programme. 


161 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IN  WHICH  *NID  COMES  HOME 

A  LITTLE  figure  came  wearily  over  the  hills.  It 
could  scarcely  drag  one  small  foot  after  the  other. 
Now  it  stopped ;  it  sat  down  on  the  short  turf  under  the 
shadow  of  a  clump  of  gorse  and  wept  weakly,  for  it  was 
very,  very  tired  and  hungry  and  lonely. 

For  an  hour  it  sat  there  while  the  sun  slowly  dipped 
towards  the  west,  behind  the  gaunt  skeleton  of  the  ruined 
mill  which  lifted  but  two  of  its  once  four  sails  as  in  dumb 
surrender  to  the  all-conquering  victor,  Time. 

'Nid  sat  there  on  the  soft  grass,  the  tears  dropped 
slowly  down  her  face,  she  was  very,  very  tired,  but  she 
knew  her  journey's  end  was  very  near  now.  Another 
mile  or  but  little  more  and  she  would  have  reached  her 
goal ;  she  would  come  down  the  valley  to  the  little  cottage 
— her  refuge  and  her  retreat — and  there  she  would  stay. 
She  would  just  lie  down  somewhere  beside  the  stream 
and  sleep — sleep,  perhaps  God  would  be  merciful  and  let 
her  sleep  on  always. 

She  wanted  to  sleep  now,  but  she  fought  off  the  desire. 
She  was  so  near  her  goal,  just  a  little  more  courage,  a 
little  more  strength  and  it  would  be  won,  and  then — rest 
— sleep,  forgetfulness,  and  one  day  the  children  coming 
to  the  cottage  would  find  her  sleeping  there. 

She  rose  slowly  and  staggered  along  on  the  green  grass. 
The  sun  was  low  and  deeply  red  in  the  sky.  But  she  did 
not  look  back.  Before  her  the  hill  dropped  away,  she 
162 


In  Which  'Nid  Comes  Home 

could  see  the  narrow,  winding,  white  road  that  ran 
through  the  valley — that  road  would  take  her  to  the  dell 
and  the  old  cottage  and  rest. 

Again  and  again  as  she  made  down  the  steep  bank  of 
the  hillside  she  stumbled  and  fell  on  to  her  hands  and 
knees — she  was  very  weak,  very  tired. 

But  the  road  was  gained  at  last;  the  sun  had  gone 
down,  the  sweet  twilight  was  over  all.  High  up  in  the 
heavens  a  lark  was  singing  his  last  song  to  the  departing 
day ;  some  sheep  paused  for  an  instant  from  their  eternal 
cropping  of  the  grass  to  look  at  her  with  mild-eyed  in- 
terest. 

She  gained  the  road — it  was  hot  and  dry  to  her  little 
bare  feet,  it  dipped  to  the  valley.  She  was  very  near  now. 
Beside  the  road  a  shining  stream  ran,  she  knew  it  for  the 
same  stream  that  ran  before  the  door  of  the  cottage.  The 
road  dipped  and  dipped  and  her  weary  little  feet  had 
carried  her  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley  now. 
She  must  turn  to  the  left  and  in  a  few  moments  she  would 
see  it — the  place  she  had  prayed  for,  the  home  she  was 
seeking.  It  would  be  an  empty  home  without  food,  with 
no  friendly,  welcoming  hands  to  help  her  in. 

Thick  green  stuff  brushed  her  bare  ankles,  so  cool  to 
the  touch  of  her  tired  little  hot  feet.  So  she  pushed  her 
way  slowly  through  the  growth  of  years,  past  the  broken 
gate  by  the  stream,  and  she  saw  the  cottage  before  her 
and  the  door  stood  open,  and  in  the  doorway  a  man  stood 
smoking,  his  bare  arms  folded  across  his  chest. 

'Nid  stood  still,  the  man  did  not  move.  Across  the 
stream  they  looked  at  one  another,  and  then  he  moved. 
Slowly,  as  with  an  effort,  he  came  splashing  across  the 
stream  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"'Nid!"  he  said,  '"Nid!" 

163 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WHAT  HE  DID 

HE  put  no  questions  to  her,  he  just  accepted  her  return 
as  a  fact.  It  was  'Nid  come  back  again — 'Nid  dis- 
illusioned very  likely,  'Nid  worn  out,  tired  to  death,  with 
a  terribly  weary,  pathetic  look  in  her  pretty  eyes,  her  little 
bare  feet  sore  and  lacerated  by  the  flinty  roads. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  he  led  her  silently  into  the 
cottage,  he  forced  her  gently  into  a  seat.  Speech  seemed 
useless  to  him,  he  had  nothing  to  say.  He  would  not 
question  her.  She  had  come  back  and  he  must  do  his 
best  for  her. 

It  seemed  to  his  honest,  simple  mind  that  it  was  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  'Nid,  weary  and 
disillusioned,  heart-broken,  perhaps  deceived  and  aban- 
doned, should  come  to  him  for  comfort  and  protection. 
That  was  what  he  was  for,  to  comfort  and  protect  her. 

Simple  minded  and  honest  as  he  was,  he  was  not  ut- 
terly ignorant  of  the  world.  He  knew  of  men  and  men's 
vices ;  he  knew  of  men  who  sought  a  thing  only  to  play 
with  it  for  a  time,  then  break  and  crush  it  and  fling  it 
away.  He  did  not  doubt  but  that  was  what  this  man  had 
done.  'Nid  had  attracted  him,  he  had  lured  her  away, 
she  had  amused  him  for  a  time,  then  he  had  tired  of  her 
and  abandoned  her.  So  'Nid  had  come  back  to  him 
again. 

He  busied  himself  about  the  place ;  he  prepared  a  meal, 
he  boiled  a  kettle  on  some  sticks  in  the  fireplace.  He 
164 


What  He  Did 

made  her  tea,  he  set  a  feast  for  her,  and  all  in  silence, 
for  he  was  tongue-tied.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say, 
he  felt  that  it  would  be  out  of  place  for  him  to  offer  her 
pity.  Certainly  he  never  thought  of  offering  her  blame. 

"Jim,  why  are  you  doing  this  for  me  ?"  she  said. 

"Why  ?"  He  turned  to  her.  "You're  hungry  and  tired, 
ain't  you,  'Nid?" 

"Yes,  yes,  oh,  yes,"  she  said  with  a  sob  in  her  voice. 
"So  tired."  She  paused.  "It's  been  a  long,  long  way, 
Jim.  I  didn't  think  to  find  you  here." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  s'pose  not.  You  never  know  what's 
waiting  for  you  at  the  journey's  end,  do  you?  Now  don't 
talk,  eat  a  bit  and  then  you'll  rest." 

She  ate  a  little,  not  much.  Now  and  again  she  looked 
at  him  with  a  kind  of  wonder  in  her  eyes.  Was  he  a  man 
that  he  could  treat  her  like  this  ?  It  seemed  to  'Nid  just 
now  that  plain,  honest  Jim  Bevanwood  was  more  angel 
than  man.  She  had  treated  him  badly,  had  shamed  him, 
had  done  the  worst  thing  a  woman  could  do.  She  had 
run  away  from  him  with  another  man ;  she  shuddered  at 
the  memory  of  it.  And  she  looked  at  him,  at  his  plain, 
honest,  good  face,  and  she  felt  she  worshipped  him  for 
his  goodness  to  her. 

She  was  too  weary  to  think,  to  wonder  how  he  came 
to  be  here.  He  was  here,  here  to  welcome  her,  and 
that  was  all  that  mattered.  She  felt  like  a  little  child 
overtired  come  home  to  a  mother's  loving  care.  Jim 
was  like  that  to  her,  almost  womanly  in  his  tenderness 
for  her.  Presently  he  led  her  upstairs  to  the  tiny  bed- 
room under  the  eaves — his  own. 

There  he  left  her.  Billy  Wasser  was  away  in  the  town 
on  his  bicycle.  He  had  gone  to  buy  some  necessaries. 
Jim  was  glad,  he  wanted  to  be  alone.  His  brain  moved 

165 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

slowly,  he  could  not  think  when  there  were  others  by 
talking  to  him  perhaps.  He  went  to  the  door  and  stared 
out  into  the  twilight.  He  sucked  at  his  empty  pipe  and 
thought  deeply. 

'Nid  had  come  back — he  knew  why,  he  saw  the  whole 
pitiful  little  tragedy.  Poor,  foolish,  innocent  little  'Nid ! 
She  had  allowed  herself  to  become  the  plaything  of  a 
man.  He  had  tired  of  her,  flung  her  aside,  so — bruised 
and  broken — she  had  come  crawling  home  to  him.  Poor 
child,  poor  little  one ! 

"Now  I  understand,"  he  muttered.  "It  wasn't  meant 
as  I  should  do  what  I  thought  of  doing.  It's  him,  not 
me !  Him !"  He  clenched  his  great  hands.  "Him,  I  got 
to  find  him !  I'll  find  him.  There's  plenty  of  time,  and 
when  I  do  find  him!"  Jim  Bevanwood  smiled  to  him- 
self. He  knew  what  he  should  do  when  he  found  that 
man.  He  held  out  his  great  strong  hands,  he  opened  and 
closed  them,  looked  at  them,  admiring  their  strength. 
Those  hands  of  his  would  have  work  to  do  one  day  when 
he  and  that  man  met. 

Standing  here  in  the  absolute  stillness  he  could  hear 
her  gentle,  regular  breathing  through  the  tiny  window 
above.  She  was  asleep.  And  that  reminded  him  that 
there  were  other  things  to  do  for  her,  always  for  her. 

He  stooped  and  pulled  off  his  boots ;  he  crept  noislessly 
up  the  narrow  stairs;  he  gathered  her  clothes  together 
in  a  bundle  and  brought  them  down,  never  once  glancing 
towards  the  bed  on  which  the  sleeping  girl  lay. 

Just  as  the  darkness  settled  down  Billy  Wasser  came 
back  on  his  4?icycle.  He  found  the  little  kitchen  filled 
with  steam,  a  fire  burning  in  the  grate  and  Jim  hard  at 
work.  Billy  opened  his  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  said.    "Started  to  take  in  washing?" 
166 


What  He  Did 

"That's  about  it,"  Jim  said  briefly.  He  went  on  grimly 
with  his  work.  He  rubbed  and  scrubbed  with  his  shirt- 
sleeves turned  back  over  his  bare  arms,  and  Billy  looked 
on  interestedly. 

"Why,  them  things,"  he  said  suddenly,  "they  bain't 
yours !" 

"Never  said  they  was,"  Jim  said.  "Look  'ere,  Billy, 
you  keep  your  mouth  shut  and  don't  go  whistling  and 
making  a  row,  and  don't  go  into  my  room,  there's  some- 
body there." 

"Somebody !"  Billy  opened  his  eyes  widely.  "  'Oo, 
Jim?"  he  asked. 

"Never  you  mind — a  lady,  that's  'oo !"  Jim  said.  "And 
I'm  doing  a  bit  of  washing  for  'er,  so  mind  you  don't 
kick  up  a  shine,  Billy,  my  lad.  Get  your  supper  and  'op 
it  off  to  bed,"  he  added. 

Billy  got  his  supper.  Now  and  again  he  stared  at 
Jim,  at  his  labours.  Billy  wanted  to  laugh.  The  idea 
of  Sir  James  Bevanwood  busy  at  the  washtub !  If  he 
told  people  they  wouldn't  believe  him.  But  Billy  was 
loyal,  he  had  no  intention  of  telling  any  one.  He  sat 
there  stuffing  stolidly. 

"When  you  done,  you  'op  it,"  Jim  said. 

Billy  had  done  presently,  and  he  hopped  it. 

"Good-night,  Jim !"  he  said. 

"  'Night,  Billy !"  The  perspiration  was  running  down 
Jim's  face,  but  he  built  up  the  fire  with  more  sticks  till 
it  roared  in  the  chimney. 

He  took  the  clothes  he  had  washed  and  rinsed  them 
out  in  the  stream ;  he  wrung  them  out  tenderly  and  care- 
fully, and  brought  them  back  and  hung  them  to  dry  by 
the  fire. 

The  night  was  far  advanced  when  Jim's  toils  were  over. 

167 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

He  had  no  iron — he  wished  he  had.  He  could  not  iron 
the  things,  but  he  did  his  best.  He  stretched  them  care- 
fully between  his  hands  and  held  them  closer  to  the  fire 
at  risk  of  scorching  them. 

"Billy  can  get  over  to  Horswood  and  get  more  things 
for  'er  to-morrow,"  he  thought.  It  did  not  strike  him 
that  he  was  acting  foolishly,  that  if  people  ever  came  to 
hear  of  what  he  had  done  they  would  laugh  at  him. 
The  bathos  of  the  situation  never  entered  his  head.  His 
wife  had  proved  false,  disloyal,  had  smirched  his  honour 
and  her  own,  had  been  cast  off  by  the  man  she  had  fled 
with  and  had  come  back  to  him — and  he  had  set  to  work 
to  wash  her  clothes  for  her.  It  seemed  stupid,  but  not 
to  him,  to  him  it  was  just  the  natural  thing  for  him  to  do. 

And  now  the  night  was  well  nigh  spent,  the  flush  of 
dawn  was  creeping  up  in  the  sky  over  the  Downs.  Jim 
went  out  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

'Nid  had  come  back  to  him,  somehow  the  dawn  seemed 
more  beautiful  to  him  than  it  had  been  yesterday.  Yes- 
terday he  had  not  counted  on  seeing  many  more  dawns, 
to-day  it  was  different.  He  knew  somehow  that  his  life 
was  valuable  tp  'Nid,  otherwise  she  would  not  have  come 
back  to  him. 

He  could  not  rest,  he  felt  no  need  of  sleep,  there  was 
still  much  to  do.  He  cleared  the  room,  removing  all 
traces  of  his  labour.  He  laid*  the  table  for  the  morning 
meal,  he  put  everything  in  readiness,  then  he  folded  the 
clothes  and  carried  them  up  to  her  room.  For  the  first 
time  he  looked  at  her  sleeping  with  the  faint  flush  of  the 
primrose  dawn  on  her  childish  face.  She  looked  such  a 
child  sleeping  here  with  her  long  hair  all  about  her  face 
on  the  pillow.  He  had  never  seen  her  like  this  before. 
168 


What  He  Did 

He  stood  looking  at  her  now  and  his  heart  was  filled  with 
a  great  pity  for  her. 

"Poor  little  kid!"  he  muttered.  He  pitied  her  as  he 
might  have  pitied  a  child  who  had  hurt  herself  and  come 
to  him  for  comfort. 

He  went  quietly  out  of  the  room  and  to  Billy's  room.  It 
was  early,  but  it  did  not  matter.  He  touched  Billy  on 
the  shoulder,  finally  he  shook  Billy  into  wakefulness. 

"You  got  to  get  up,  Billy  Wasser,  and  if  you  make  a 
sound  I'll  give  you  somethink !"  Jim  said. 

Billy  nodded,  his  eyes  dazed  by  sleep. 

"You  get  dressed  quiet,  and  come  down,"  Jim  said. 

He  himself  went  down,  he  looked  about  and  found  a 
stub  of  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper.  On  the  paper  he 
wrote :  "Turn  to  the  left  outside  the  door  and  foller  the 
streme  about  half  a  mile,  and  then  you  come  to  a  pool 
deep  enuff  to  baithe  in.  Shall  come  back  later,  JIM." 

He  remembered  'Nid's  fondness  for  bathing.  She 
would  be  glad  of  the  opportunity  now.  He  cut  a  thick 
hunch  of  bread  and  plastered  it  with  butter,  he  drew  a 
glass  of  water  from  the  well. 

"Set  down  and  eat  that!"  he  said  to  Billy  Wasser. 
"You  got  to  go  to  Horswood  for  some  things  I  want!" 

"It  be  too  early,"  Billy  said. 

"Never  you  mind,  you  can  take  your  time,"  Jim  said. 

"Is — is  she — the  woman  you  spoke  of — still  'ere?"  Billy 
said. 

"She  is,  and  she's  stopping,  Billy "  Jim  paused. 

"Billy,  you're  a  good  lad,  I  trust  you,  you  ain't  one  to 
talk,  you  just  say  nothing,  Billy,  about  anything,  see?" 

Billy  nodded.  "Not  me,"  he  said.  "I'll  keep  my  mouth 
shut,  Jim." 

"Good  boy,"  Jim  said. 

169 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"And  about  them  things  I  got  to  get  at  Horswood?" 
Billy  asked,  when  he  had  finished  his  bread-and-butter. 

Jim  frowned. 

That  was  the  trouble,  what  was  Billy  to  get?  He  did 
not  know. 

"Stand  up,  Billy,"  he  said. 

Billy  stood  up  obediently.  Jim  measured  him  with  his 
eye. 

"She  ain't  a  wonderful  deal  taller'n  you  and  slimmer'n 
you,  Billy,"  he  said. 

"Then  she's  only  a  kid,"  Billy  said,  disgustedly. 

"That's  what  she  is,  only  a  kid,"  Jim  said.  "Look 
'ere,  you  go  to  Horswood,  you  go  and  find  some  woman 
in  a  shop  where  they  sell  women's  close,  see?  Just  tell 
'er  you  want  things  for  a  girl  not  much  taller'n  you  and 

slim — slim  built.  Tell  her  that,  Billy,  say  you  want " 

He  paused.  "Well,  everything.  She'll  know  better'n  you 
nor  me.  Close  and  boots  and  a  'at  and  other  things,  the 
usual  things.  Say  you  want  two  or  three  of  everything 
and  a  dress  or  two,  somethink  light,  whitey  kind  of 

dress,  or  pink "  Jim  paused.  "Somethink  as  'ud 

fit  you  if  you  was,  say  a  inch  taller  and  a  bit  thinner, 
Billy."  He  paused.  "Get  'old  of  some  woman  and  she'll 

know.  If  she  asks  questions  say "  Jim  paused. 

"Well,  don't  tell  'er  no  lies,  Billy,  say  it's  some  one  as 
'as  turned  up  unexpectedly  and  'as  pretty  near  run  out 
of  close,  see?" 

"And  'ow  am  I  to  bring  'em  back,  Jim?"  Billy  asked. 

"Bring  'em  back?"  Jim  said.  "Why,  you  jest  bring 
'em  back,  that's  all.  'Ire  a  cart  if  you  can't  manage  with- 
out, only  don't  let  the  cart  come  'ere.  Unload  at  the 
road,  and  'ere's  money."  That  was  another  question — 
how  much  money  would  Billy  need?  Jim  produced  a 
170 


What  He  Did 

five  pound  note.  He  hesitated  and  produced  another. 
Billy  was  honest  as  the  day. 

"You  pay  for  everything  and  you  can  tell  me  all  about 
it  when  you  get  'ome,"  he  said.  "Now  'op  it." 

Billy  was  gone,  and  Jim  sat  there  alone.  Once  he  went 
to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  listened,  he  heard  her  deep, 
regular  breathing  and  he  smiled.  It  was  as  it  should  be, 
the  poor,  tired  little  soul  was  taking  her  fill  of  sleep. 

Jim  went  out,  he  went  down  the  valley  and  climbed  the 
steep  bank  of  the  Downs.  He  climbed  till  he  was  high 
up.  A  lark  was  singing  overhead,  a  faint  smell  of  the 
distant  sea  was  borne  to  him  on  the  light  wind.  Far  away 
to  the  right  the  white  sails  of  a  mill  turned  lazily  in  the 
breeze.  Mingled  with  the  smell  of  the  sea  was  the  smell 
of  gorse  and  of  the  sun-warmed  turf. 

Looking  down  he  could  see  below  the  thatched  roof 
of  the  cottage.  He  could  follow  the  silver  thread  of 
the  stream,  except  here  and  there  where  it  was  lost  among 
the  greenery.  He  could  see  the  lonely  white,  winding 
road  down  which  just  now  Billy  Wasser  had  'opped  it 
on  his  bicycle. 

"That's  it,"  Jim  muttered.    "That's  it." 

What  it  was  he  scarcely  knew,  but  somehow  things 
seemed  to  be  just  as  they  should  be — that  was  what  he 
meant  by  "That's  it." 

She  had  come  back,  tired  and  worn,  bruised  and  bleed- 
ing— poor  little  soul.  She  had  come  back  for  his  care 
and  protection.  The  world  would  have  it  that  she  was 
his  wife,  but  she  was  not,  she  was  just  'Nid — his  kid, 
the  kid  he  had  adopted.  And  she  found  after  all  that 
she  needed  him,  she  could  not  manage  without  him. 

He  lay  there  on  his  back  on  the  green  turf  and  watched 

171 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

the  fleecy  clouds  slowly  scudding  across  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sky. 

And  the  man — one  day  he  would  go  out  and  seek  the 
man.  Meanwhile  his  first  thought  must  be  for  'Nid. 
He  must  arrange  everything  for  her.  When  he  and  that 
man  met  it  would  mean  the  end  of  things  for  him.  It 
would  be  both  their  lives,  the  man's  first  and  then  his — 
his  demanded  of  the  law.  Well,  that  was  as  it  should  be. 

"If  you  take  the  law  into  your  own  'ands  you  got  to 
pay  for  it,"  Jim  muttered.  "All  right,  I'll  pay,  I'm  willing 
to  pay,  but  not  yet,  I  got  to  fix  'er  up  first.  There's  time, 
plenty  of  time.  I  ain't  going  chasing  round  the  world 
for  'im,  sooner  or  later  he'll  come  back  to  me,  that's 
what  I'll  wait  for,  'im  coming  back  to  me,  bound  to. 
And  that's  when  the  time'll  be,  when  he  conies  back." 

Out  here  under  the  sky  with  the  hum  of  the  insects 
in  his  ears,  with  the  scent  of  the  sea  and  gorse  and  grass 
with  him,  Jim  fell  asleep.  A  passer-by  chancing  to 
see  him  as  he  slept  would  have  looked  in  vain  for  any 
signs  of  passion,  of  revenge,  of  some  sworn  vendetta. 
There  was  a  smile  on  the  rugged  face,  the  man  asleep 
looked  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  So  he  was,  with  the 
exception  of  one  man  who,  when  the  time  came,  he 
would  kill  remorselessly  and  without  passion,  kill  as  a 
simple  act  of  justice. 


172 


CHAPTER  XXV 
"MAY  i  STAY  ?" 

D  woke  in  the  sunshine  of  the  little  room.  She 
stretched  her  still  aching  limbs  in  luxurious  ease 
and  opened  her  eyes.  Then  she  lay  wondering.  She 
looked  at  whitened  walls,  broken  in  a  score  of  places, 
at  a  bare  floor.  She  saw  her  own  clothes  neatly  folded 
on  a  cane  chair  beside  the  bed. 

Where  was  she?  How  had  she  come  here?  Then 
she  remembered.  She  had  come  back,  Jim  was  here.  Jim 
had  welcomed  her  last  night,  had  brought  her  in,  had  fed 
her  and  had  brought  her  to  rest.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  she  did  not  deserve  this  from  him.  She  rose  and 
looked  in  sheer  wonder  at  her  clothes.  She  saw  what 
had  happened,  the  dust  had  been  shaken  out  of  her  dress, 
her  underclothing  had  all  been  washed  clean.  She  knew 
who  had  done  it  and  a  sob  broke  from  her  labouring 
breast  and  the  tears  started  into  her  eyes. 

It  was  like  Jim,  so  like  him.  What  a  wonderful  Jim 
it  was.  She  tried  to  laugh,  but  only  the  tears  came. 
She  dressed  and  went  down,  the  little  place  was  silent 
and  empty,  for  a  moment  she  felt  afraid — afraid  lest 
Jim  had  deserted  her.  Then  she  saw  the  scrawled  note 
on  the  table  left  for  her. 

That  again  was  like  him,  he  would  remember  how 
she  loved  to  bathe.  She  followed  his  directions,  she 
went  out  and  turned  to  the  left  and  followed  the 
stream  till  she  came  to  the  bathing  pool. 

173 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

She  slipped  off  her  clothes  and  stood  a  slender,  white, 
almost  boyish  figure  on  the  bank,  then  a  plunge  and  she 
was  in.  The  cool  water  rippled  over  her  head.  She 
could  swim,  she  had  learned  swimming  in  the  baths  in 
London,  she  swam  like  a  mermaid.  The  pool  was  not 
wide,  nor  was  it  very  deep,  but  many  minutes  passed 
before  'Nid  emerged,  dripping  and  flushed  from  the 
exercise. 

Now  she  took  a  sunbath  that  seemed  to  warm  her 
through  and  through  to  her  very  heart.  She  lay  on  the 
green  bank  and  stretched  her  limbs.  It  seemed  to  her 
now  that  when  she  had  plunged  into  the  pool  she  had 
cleansed  herself  of  the  past,  of  all  the  misery,  the  mis- 
understanding, the  folly  of  it.  She  was  clean  and  whole 
again  in  soul  and  mind  and  body. 

What  should  she  tell  him  when  she  saw  him?  What 
could  she  say  to  him,  how  could  she  try  and  thank  him 
for  his  wonderful  goodness  to  her?  She  almost  hoped 
that  he  would  question  her.  She  had  so  much  to  tell 
him,  so  much  that  she  could  not  tell  him  unless  he  ques- 
tioned her.  Would  he?  She  wondered  and  hoped  he 
would.  If  only  he  would,  then  she  would  tell  him  all, 
tell  him  how  foolishly,  wickedly  wrong  she  had  been, 
tell  him  of  how  a  knowledge  of  her  folly  and  foolishness 
had  come  to  her  in  time,  how  she  had  fled  from  the  man 
in  sudden  horror. 

She  had  been  ignorant,  innocent  as  a  child,  yet  instinct 
had  come  to  her  and  taught  her  much.  She  realised  now 
how  she  had  wronged  Jim  and  wronged  herself  by  going 
with  that  man — she  had  not  known  then,  even  now  she 
did  not  entirely  comprehend. 

But  if  he  questioned  her  she  would  make  him  under- 
174 


"May  I  Stay?" 

stand  that  she  was  still  'Nid,  still  the  same  as  she  had 
always  been. 

She  dressed,  shaking  the  water  out  of  her  long  hair. 
She  left  it  free  to  fall  about  her  shoulders  and  dry  in 
the  sunshine  as  she  walked  back  to  the  cottage.  And  at 
the  door  Jim,  coming  down  from  the  Downs,  met  her. 
He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  of  welcome. 

"You're  looking  lots  better,  you  looked  pretty  bad  last 
night.  Had  a  swim?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  shyly.  She  lifted  her  hand,  she  wanted 
to  touch  him,  she  wanted  him  to  take  her  hand,  would 
have  been  glad  and  grateful  if  he  had  kissed  her.  But 
how  was  he  to  know?  He  was  only  a  clumsy  man.  It 
was  not  likely  that  he  could  understand. 

"Jim,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.    "Yes,  'Nid?" 

"Jim,  I  want  to — to  try  and  thank  you " 

"There  is  no  need,"  he  said.  "I'm  'andy  at  most  things, 
a  bit  of  washing  comes  my  way  as  easy  as  most  other 
things.  See  that  door."  He  pointed  with  pride  to  the 
patched  up  door.  "A  rare  job  I  'ad  with  that.  You 
wouldn't  believe  'ow  rotten  the  wood  'ad  got." 

And  it  was  the  same  with  the  window,  rotten  through 
and  through.  "I'm  glad  I  got  a  bit  ship  shape  before 
you  come.  I  been  working  in  the  garden,  getting  the 
weeds  under  a  bit."  He  went  on  talking  about  these  mat- 
ters, about  the  garden  and  the  cottage,  not  about  them- 
selves. It  was  evident  that  he  had  no  wish  for  any 
personal  talk.  It  was  evident  too  that  he  had  no  inten- 
tion of  questioning  her,  though  in  her  heart  she  prayed 
that  he  might. 

"And  you  been  living  here,  Jim?" 

"Me  and  Billy,"  he  said;  "Billy  Wasser,  he's  a  good 

175 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

boy  and  knows  'ow  to  keep  'is  mouth  shut.    I  'ad  to  come 
somewhere,  'Nid,  you  see.    I  couldn't  stand  being  there 

and  people  talking  and "     He  paused,  "  'Owever  it 

don't  matter,  me  and  Billy  'as  been  comfortable  enough 
'ere." 

"And  now  I — I've  come,  Jim,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.    "Yes,  you've  come  and  the  room " 

"May — may  I  stay?"  she  whispered. 

He  turned  to  look  at  her  in  sheer  surprise. 

"You  don't  think  I'd  want  to  turn  you  out,  'Nid?" 

"I — I  didn't  know,"  she  said  with  a  sob.  "Oh,  Jim,  I 
didn't  know." 

"Then  you  know  now,  gel,"  he  said  gently.  "I  don't 
never  want  to  turn  you  out.  Some'ow  when  I  see  you 
last  night  standing  there  on  the  bank  of  the  stream  it 
seemed  just  right,  just  natural  you  should  'ave  come. 
I  don't  know,  but  I  think  I  'ad  an  idea  all  the  time  that 
you  might  come." 

He  lighted  the  little  oil  stove,  he  filled  the  kettle  at  the 
stream  and  busied  himself  preparing  the  breakfast. 

"Jim  would — would  you  let  me  do  that?"  she  asked 
humbly  and  timidly. 

"You  couldn't  yet,"  he  said;  "you  don't  know  where 
things  are  kep'." 

"I  could  find  out,"  she  said;  "you  would  tell  me,  I 
would  be  glad  to  help,  Jim."  There  was  something  pitiful 
in  her  voice,  in  her  pleading  eyes. 

"You  can  'elp  a  bit,"  he  said.  "Things'll  turn  up  for 
you  to  do,  I  daresay,  'Nid,  only  now  you're  tired." 

"I'm  not,  I  am  well  again,  I'm  rested  and  my  bathe, 
oh,  that  was^good,  Jim,  it  was  good  of  you  to  think  of  it." 

"I  remembered,"  he  said,  "you  was  always  keen  on 
bathing,  'Nid." 
176 


"May  I  Stay?" 

Yet  though  she  tried  to  make  him  understand,  he 
insisted  on  treating  her  as  an  invalid,  one  in  a  delicate 
state  of  health.  She  must  not  lift  anything,  she  must 
not  wash  up.  She  would  have  turned  the  little  kitchen 
out  and  cleaned  it ;  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"You  just  sit  there  in  the  sunshine  and  rest,"  he  said. 
He  could  not  understand  that  she  was  eager  for  some- 
thing to  do,  something  to  justify  her  presence  here.  Jim 
Bevanwood's  brain  had  its  limitations,  and  it  was  cer- 
tainly true  that  he  could  never  understand  JNid. 


177 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
"THE  SUMMER  WILL  GO" 

SHE  followed  him  about  as  a  dog  might,  she  sat  and 
watched  him  with  a  strange  look  in  her  great,  won- 
derful eyes,  the  eyes  that  Geoffrey  Clare  had  raved  about 
— a  look  that  was  wholly  eager,  half  hopeless,  and  yet 
sometimes  in  it  was  the  dawn  of  hope. 

But  Jim  Bevanwood  never  saw,  never  knew.  She 
was  here,  and  it  seemed  just  natural  to  him  that  she 
should  have  come  back — poor  little  woman.  He  thought, 
bruised  and  hurt,  she  had  come  to  him  for  protection,  and 
he  had  given  it  willingly  and  from  his  heart. 

Sometimes  he  wondered  how  it  might  have  been  if 
Geoffrey  Clare  had  never  come  into  her  life  and  his. 
How  perhaps  after  years  had  passed  'Nid  might  have 
come  to  like  him  a  little  better,  even  to  care  for  him — 
how  at  last  they  might  really  have  become  man  and  wife. 
But  those  dreams  were  ended,  that  future  could  never  be. 
She  was  his  wife  inasmuch  as  she  bore  his  name  and  had 
been  through  a  legal  ceremony  of  marriage  with  him. 
But  there  it  ended,  she  was  no  more  to  him  than  she 
had  been  on  that  first  day  when  he  had  seen  her  come 
out  from  the  laundry  with  the  other  girls.  She  would 
never  be  more  to  him  than  that,  now. 

And  yet  he^Joved  her,  loved  her  even  more  dearly  than 
in  those  days,  but  his  love  was  different.    The  passion 
had  all  gone  out  of  it.    He  loved  her  very  dearly  in  a 
pitying,  protecting  way. 
178 


'The  Summer  Will  Go" 

And  so  life  in  the  little  cottage  down  there  in  the  dip 
of  the  Downs  went  on  slowly,  uneventfully. 

Billy  Wasser  came  and  went.  He  rode  over  to  Hors- 
wood  on  his  cycle  and  got  what  stores  they  needed.  Billy 
Wasser  held  his  tongue;  no  one  knew  that  the  man  in 
the  cottage  was  Sir  James  Bevanwood,  no  one  knew  that 
there  was  a  woman  there  at  all. 

At  first  Billy  had  looked  at  'Nid  with  resentful  eyes. 
He  resented  her  coming;  he  and  Jim  had  been  happy 
enough  together  alone. 

"What  be  her  doing  here?"  he  demanded  of  Jim. 

"She — came,"  Jim  said.  "She  knew  I'd  be  glad,  so  she 
just  came,  Billy." 

"I  wish  her  had  stopped  away,"  Billy  said.  "  Tisn't 
like  the  same  with  a  woman  about  the  place." 

"No,  it  isn't  like  the  same,"  Jim  said. 

"When  I  be  growed  up,"  Billy  said,  "I'll  keep  house 
with  another  man,  I  shan't  never  marry  and  be  bothered 
with  no  wimmen  about  me,  Jim." 

"Billy,  if  you  don't  ever  marry,"  Jim  said,  "you'll  never 
know  what  sorrow  is,  my  son,  nor  you  won't  never  know 
what  happiness  and  joy  is  neither.  You  get  to  learn  a  bit 
about  both  when  you  marry." 

But  after  a  time  Billy  grew  used  to  her  presence.  'Nid 
was  quiet,  gentle,  unlike  the  Lady  Bevanwood  he  had  seen 
ride  through  the  village.  Where  was  her  haughtiness? 
It  was  gone.  She  smiled  at  him,  she  seemed  to  like  him 
to  come  and  talk  to  her,  for  she  was  lonely,  still,  very, 
very  lonely.  She  knew  that  between  Jim  and  herself  a 
barrier  was  raised,  and  though  she  might  try  feebly  to 
beat  against  it  with  her  little  hands,  she  would  never  be 
able  to  thrust  it  down. 

"I've  lost  him.  He  was  mine,  and  I  didn't  know  how 

179 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

much  he  was  to  me,"  she  thought.  "I  never  knew  that 
he  was  so  necessary  to  me,  I  just  looked  on  him  as — as 
Jim,  and  now  he's  mine  no  longer."  Alone  in  her  room 
under  the  old  thatched  roof  she  shed  many  bitter  tears, 
yet  Jim  never  saw  them.  When  he  came  she  had  always 
a  smile  on  her  face.  She  loved  to  stand  beside  him  and 
watch  him  at  his  work.  They  might  have  been  friends, 
good  friends,  even  brother  and  sister  together.  Yet 
there  was  something — something  all  the  time  that  she 
could  never  forget,  even  though  he  might. 

Once  in  their  little  home  it  had  been  Jim  who  had  been 
the  slave,  who  fetched  and  carried.  Now,  insensibly,  the 
position  was  reversed.  It  was  she  who  waited  on  him 
and  he  scarcely  knew  it.  If  he  wanted  a  thing  it  was  she 
who  went  eagerly  to  get  it.  He  had  taken  up  his  old 
work  of  carpentry;  he  had  had  wood  and  materials 
brought  from  Horswood.  He  had  set  himself  to  work 
practically  to  rebuild  the  cottage.  He  had  made  new 
doors  and  new  windows,  put  in  new  rafters  and  joists  and 
beams,  new  flooring  where  it  was  needed.  All  day  long 
his  saw  and  hammer  could  be  heard,  and  'Nid  stood  be- 
side him,  ready  to  bring  him  nails  and  screws,  ready  to 
put  her  hand  on  this  tool  or  the  other.  When  he  wanted 
a  screwdriver  and  she  brought  him  a  chisel,  she  could 
almost  have  cried  at  her  stupidity,  but  Jim  only  laughed. 
He  could  not  dream  how  even  a  foolish  little  mistake 
like  that  made  her  heart  ache. 

And  often  she  asked  herself,  often — "How  long,  how 
long  will  this  last?  How  long  can  it  last?  We  cannot 
live  here  for  ever,  the  summer  will  go  and  the  winter 
will  come  and  Jim — Jim  must  go  back  to  his  house  and 
his  people,  his  tenants,  folk  who  want  him,  and  I — I 
must  stay  here  alone." 
180 


"The  Summer  Will  Go" 

One  day  she  spoke  to  him  about  it.  She  asked  him 
when  he  would  go  back. 

"I've  never  thought  o'  that,  'Nid,"  he  said.  "I  s'pose 
one  day  it'll  have  to  be." 

"And  when  you — you  go  back  I  shall  be  here  alone. 
Billy  will  go  back  with  you,  he — he  wouldn't  stay  here 
with  me,"  she  said.  Her  voice  trembled.  She  had  a 
hard  fight  to  keep  the  tears  back.  What  would  he  say? 
Her  heart  waited  eagerly,  hungrily.  Would  he  say  that 
where  he  went  she  must  go,  that  his  home  was  her  home  ? 
From  her  soul  she  prayed  that  he  might,  but  he  did  not. 

"When  I  go  back,  'Nid,  as  I  s'pose  I  must  one  day, 
because  there's  a  deal  o'  things'll  want  seeing  to,  I'll  find 
some  one  to  come  here  and  keep  you  company." 

Her  heart  fell  like  lead.  She  understood  that  it  was 
ended,  that  she  was  nothing  to  him  now,  that  she  could 
never  share  his  home.  She  had  forfeited  the  right,  her 
place  by  his  side  out  there  in  the  world.  Only  here  in 
this  tiny  cottage  tucked  away  in  the  Downs  might  she 
and  he  still  be  together. 

That  night  'Nid  cried  herself  to  sleep.  She  woke  while 
the  night  was  still  black,  woke  with  a  sense  of  yearning 
and  longing  beyond  words  for  him.  Oh!  that  he  would 
come  to  her  now,  put  his  arms  around  her,  hold  her  to 
his  breast  and  kiss  her  as  once  before  he  had  kissed 
her.  She  remembered  that  kiss.  Then  she  had  hated 
it,  it  had  seemed  to  outrage  her,  it  was  like  some  deadly 
insult.  Poor  fool,  in  her  ignorance  she  had  hated  the 
kiss  that  to-night  she  longed  for,  could  have  prayed  for. 

Down  below  she  heard  a  step  on  the  floor,  the  rattle 
of  fireirons.  Jim  had  not  gone  to  bed  then.  She  rose 
in  her  white  nightdress  and  crept  to  the  head  of  the  nar- 
low  wooden  stairs;  there  she  crouched  listening  to  him. 

181 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

And  listening  to  those  slow,  clumsy,  heavy  movements  of 
his,  knowledge  seemed  suddenly  to  come  to  her,  knowl- 
edge of  her  own  heart — her  love — yes,  her  love  for  him. 
She  knew  it  now,  she  loved  this  quiet  man,  this 
brave,  good  man.  He  had  been  more  father  than 
husband  and  lover  to  her.  She  contrasted  him  with 
Geoffrey  Qare.  Often  before  in  the  old  days  she  had 
contrasted  them  and  now  she  seemed  to  realise  the  dif- 
ference, for  in  the  old  days  it  was  Geoffrey  who  had 
shone.  The  one  empty,  selfish,  unreliable,  a  man  who 
had  taken  her  from  her  home,  and  had  condemned  her 
to  shame,  without  a  thought  for  her,  without  a  care  for 
anything  in  the  world  but  for  himself — and  this  man 
Jim,  her  husband  who  had  been  so  kind,  so  delicate,  even 
though  he  was  big  and  rough  and  uncouth  and  un- 
educated. The  most  tender  and  considerate  gentleman 
in  the  world,  she  thought,  as  she  knelt  there  on  the 
wooden  floor  and  listened  to  him  below. 

And  then  the  longing  came  to  her,  a  longing  she  could 
not  fight  down,  she  must  go  and  abase  herself  before  him, 
kiss  his  hands,  cry  to  him  to  pity  her,  to  give  her  a  little 
of  that  great  wealth  of  love  that  had  once  been  hers. 
She  wanted  it  so  much.  Once  it  had  meant  nothing, 
she  had  not  valued  it,  it  had  annoyed,  even  disgusted 
her.  Now  it  was  life  itself. 

Trembling,  shaking,  a  little  figure  in  her  white  night- 
gown, she  crept  bare-footed  down  the  stairs.  She 
peeped  into  the  kitchen,  he  was  sitting  there  beside  the 
table,  his  elbows  resting  on  it,  his  hand  supporting  his 
chin.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  straight  at  her,  yet  she 
knew  that  his  eyes  saw  nothing.  They  were  fixed  on 
vacancy.  And  she  could  not  move,  she  stood  there 
trembling,  hesitating  in  the  darkness.  She  stretched  out 
182 


"The  Summer  Will  Go" 

her  arms  to  him,  her  heart  went  out  to  him,  but  her  arms 
fell  to  her  side.  And  then,  presently,  his  head  dropped, 
his  arms  folded  on  the  table,  on  them  he  pillowed  his 
head. 

And  for  nearly  half  an  hour  she  watched  him  till  she 
knew  him  to  be  asleep,  and  then  she  crept  in  like  a  little 
ghost.  She  went  to  him  and  stood  beside  him,  her  heart 
beating  quickly.  She  bent  and  touched  his  head  with 
her  lips. 

"My  darling,  my  darling!"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  how 
I  love  you — love  you  for  all  your  goodness  to  me,  your 
splendid  charity,  my — my  Jim !"  And  then  a  sob  broke 
from  her  breast  and,  afraid  lest  he  should  waken,  she 
crept  away. 

And  he  there,  immovable,  heard  the  stairs  creak  under 
her  light  weight. 

He  had  not  been  sleeping,  he  had  only  been  thinking, 
thinking  of  the  hopeless  future  for  her  and  for  him — 
for  himself  less  than  for  her,  for  he  knew  what  his 
future  must  be.  And  when  she  had  come,  he  had  felt 
her  near  him,  he  had  not  raised  his  head,  he  had  felt  her 
kiss  on  his  bowed  head,  had  heard  the  murmuring 
whisper  of  her  voice.  "My  darling!"  she  had  said. 
"Oh,  how  I  love  you !" 

And  he  had  longed  with  a  great  longing  to  rise  up  and 
take  her  into  his  arms  and  kiss  the  gladness  and  happi- 
ness back  into  her  face.  But  he  could  not,  he  knew  he 
could  not.  She  was  not  the  same,  she  was  not  his,  she 
could  never  be  his  now,  she  was  not  the  little  'Nid  he 
had  married — his  pure,  sweet  little  girl ;  that  'Nid  could 
never  come  back  to  him  again. 

And  so  he  stayed  immovable  till  long,  long  after  she 
had  gone,  and  then  he  lifted  his  head  slowly.  His  face 

183 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

was  drawn  and  weary,  haggard,  and  there  was  pain  in 
his  eyes,  the  look  of  suffering. 

"Oh,  how  I  love  you !"  she  had  said.  She  loved  him, 
this  woman  who  was  his  wife,  and  now  she  could  be 
nothing  to  him — he  nothing  to  her.  He  clenched  his 
hands.  Life  was  cruel,  Heaven  was  cruel.  Why  could 
not  Heaven — if  there  was  a  Heaven — have  put  love  into 
her  heart  for  him  before — before  she — before  this  other 
man  had  crossed  her  path?  It  was  too  late  now,  too 
late.  God  help  them  both! — too  late! 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  blackness 
that  was  changing  softly  to  grey,  the  grey  that  comes  be- 
fore the  dawn.  A  chill  breath  seemed  to  be  in  the  air 
and  he  shivered.  He  was  in  j>ain,  his  heart  was  bleeding. 
He  thought  of  her  creeping  to  him  while  she  thought  he 
slept — the  kiss,  the  first  she  had  ever  of  her  own  free 
will  given  to  him — her  murmured  words  of  love.  And 
he,  loving  her  as  he  did,  had  been  motionless,  silent. 
What  else  could  he  be?  He  knew  how  great  the  temp- 
tation had  been  to  take  her,  to  hold  her  close  to  him, 
to  kiss  back  the  smiles  and  the  joy,  to  forgive — nay,  he 
had  forgiven,  always  he  had  forgiven  her.  And  forget 

Forget  the  past,  no,  that  was  impossible.  He 

would  have  but  cheated  her  and  himself.  That  j>ast 
might  be  forgiven,  but  forgotten  never! 

He  could  forgive  her.  He  knew  her  innocence;  she 
had  not  understood  what  she  was  doing.  She  had  sinned, 
yet  sinned  in  her  innocence,  unknowingly.  But  the 
man,  he  had  sinned  knowingly  and  with  deliberation,  and 
the  man  should  pay,  must  suffer — and  he,  too. 

But,  striding  away  over  the  hills,  Jim  knew  that  he 
had  passed  through  a  great  temptation,  and  knew  that  he 
had  done  rightly.  She  could  never  be  the  same,  never 
184 


"The  Summer  Will  Go" 

the  same  to  him  again.  His  'Nid  was  dead  and  gone; 
this  woman  who  loved  him  was  not  his  'Nid,  the  in- 
nocent, pure  girl  whose  innocence  and  purity  he  had 
respected. 

So  he  strode  over  the  Downland,  breasting  the  hills, 
climbing  for  the  sheer  joy  of  climbing,  for  the  sake  of 
the  physical  strength  necessary  to  do  it,  and  for  the 
fatigue  that  he  wanted  to  come.  And  presently  he  stood 
on  a  high  hill  and  looked  about  him  and  saw  the  sun 
rising.  Away  to  the  east  he  could  see  the  sea  a  faint  grey 
streak  against  the  horizon,  to  the  south  behind  him  the 
rolling  Downs.  And  the  flush  grew  in  the  sky  and  pres- 
ently the  sea  seemed  to  come  to  life  as  the  rays  of  the 
rising  sun  kissed  it.  A  faint  breeze  came  laden  with 
the  salt  air  and  stirred  the  gorse  with  its  yellow  flowers. 

He  flung  himself  down  and  watched  the  birth  of  the 
new  day,  saw  the  larks  spring  up  into  the  air,  heard  their 
shrill  song  from  far  above  him.  And  then — he  fell 
asleep  and  slept  on  heavily  and  dreamlessly,  slept  while 
the  sun  rose  higher  and  yet  higher. 

Down  in  a  valley  blue  smoke  curled  from  the  red 
chimneys  of  the  little  cottages.  Fires  were  lighted,  meals 
were  being  cooked,  men  came  out  of  the  cottage  doors 
presently  and  marched  away  in  the  morning  sunshine 
to  their  day's  work  in  the  fields. 

Presently  from  the  cottage  doors  came  children  on 
their  way  to  the  schools.  The  school  bell  was  clanging, 
but  the  man  lying  here  on  the  hilltop  heard  nothing, 
saw  nothing. 

Down  in  the  cottage  in  the  dell  Billy  Wasser  stood  at 
the  door  .and  stared  far  and  wide.  Now  and  again  he 
put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  shouted,  "Jim»  Jim!"  But 
there  was  no  answer. 

185 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Can't  make  out  where  he  be  gone,  missus!"  he  said. 

"He  will  come  back,"  'Nid  said. 

"It  be  gone  breakfus'  time,"  Billy  said.  "I'll  put  on 
the  kittle,  maybe  he'll  be  back  by  the  time  it  boils."  But 
Jim  did  not  come  back,  and  the  kettle  boiled  away 
merrily,  so  Billy  made  the  tea. 

And  now  it  was  'Nid's  turn  to  go  and  look  with 
anxious  eyes  for  some  sign  of  the  homecoming  of  the 
man  she  loved. 

"Best  have  your  breakfus',"  Billy  said. 

She  drank  a  little  tea,  but  her  heart  was  filled  with 
anxiety.  Again  and  again  she  rose  and  went  to  the 
door.  And  up  there  on  the  Downs  the  man  lay  sleeping 
in  the  sunlight,  sleeping  the  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion, 
for  sleep  and  he  had  been  strangers  of  late. 


FOUND 

SHEILA  CLARE  walked  through  the  village.  The 
villagers  bobbed  and  curtseyed  to  her ;  she  gave  them 
a  haughty  nod.  The  villagers  never  interested  her;  she 
hated  common  people  who  only  wanted  things  all  the 
time.  Besides,  she  had  other  things  to  think  about  than 
villagers  and  little  children  with  more  or  less  dirty  faces. 

She  was  worried,  growing  anxious.  James  Bevan- 
wood's  disappearance  was  getting  to  be  a  mystery.  She 
had  made  enquiries;  she  had  been  to  London,  she  had 
been  to  the  solicitors,  but  they  had  heard  nothing  of 
him.  She  had  been  to  the  bank;  they  could  tell  her  but 
little,  but  from  them  she  gleaned  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  changing  cheques  for  small  amounts — he  had  given 
cheques  in  payment  for  articles,  that  was  all.  She  asked 
more  questions  but  received  no  answers. 

It  made  one  thing  certain,  at  any  rate,  Jim  was  alive 
and  well.  But  where  had  he  hidden  himself  ?  She  had 
heard  from  Geoffrey.  It  was  a  violent,  ill-tempered 
letter. 

"The  silly  little  fool  took  alarm  and  bolted,  left  me !" 
he  wrote.  "I  kissed  her  and  she  seemed  to  flare  up. 
I  didn't  quite  understand  it,  as  you  may  guess,  but  when 
I  went  to  knock  on  the  door  of  her  room  there  was  no 
answer,  she  was  not  there.  I  opened  the  door  and  found 
her  gone.  She  had  not  even  slept  on  the  bed.  I  have 

187 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

no  more  idea  where  she  is  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 
Let  me  know  if  she  has  come  back." 

The  letter  was  from  Paris.  Sheila  wired  that  'Nid 
had  not  come  back.  So  'Nid  had  disappeared,  too.  It 
was  strange. 

Weeks  had  passed  now  since  Jim  Bevanwood  had 
gone,  and  she  had  not  heard  one  word  from  him.  If 
she  had  been  dishonestly  inclined  she  might  have  en- 
riched herself  with  his  belongings  and  made  off.  But 
she  was  looking  forward  to  a  better  harvest  than  that. 

Of  course,  the  man  himself  was  objectionable  in  many 
ways,  rough  and  uncultivated.  He  must  be  kept  in  the 
background.  They  would  live  their  own  lives,  but  she  at 
least  would  be  Lady  Bevanwood,  and  she  would  have 
all  the  money  she  wanted  to  spend  and  a  bit  more.  But 
to  achieve  that  end  Jim  Bevanwood  must  be  found, 
must  be  found  and  his  mind  worked  upon.  He  must  get 
rid  of  the  girl,  his  wife,  of  course.  The  case  was  as 
clear  as  a  pikestaff. 

Geoffrey's  name  would  have  to  be  dragged  into  it,  but 
that  would  not  matter.  Afterwards  she  would  make 
amends  to  Geoffrey  and  he  might  stay  on  in  Paris  or 
go  to  New  York.  People  soon  forgot  that  sort  of  thing. 

She  had  left  the  village  and  gained  the  Downs.  She 
hated  walking,  but  she  could  think  better  if  she  walked. 
What  should  she  do?  Advertise?  That  would  be  fool- 
ish. Also  it  might  anger  Bevanwood.  Employ  a  private 
detective  ? 

After  all,  it  was  a  serious  matter.    Here  was  a  man  of 

name   and    property    utterly    vanished.      His    property 

needed  his  attention.    She  had  not  been  given  power  of 

attorney — in  fact,  he  would  not  have  known  what  it 

188 


Found 

meant.    Things  were  at  a  standstill,  more  particularly, 
her  own  plans  were  at  a  standstill  till  she  found  him. 

And  she  must  find  him,  she  must  set  her  wits  to  work 
to  discover  where  he  had  hidden  himself.  She  must — 
she  must  find  him  somehow. 

She  stood  still  suddenly.  She  had  come  a  long  way, 
a  good  deal  further  than  she  thought,  and  she  had 
found  him!  She  was  almost  certain  of  it  .the  first 
moment  her  eyes  lighted  on  the  figure  lying  stretched 
out  on  the  turf  under  the  lee  of  a  gorse  clump. 

She  came  nearer,  walking  softly  on  the  soft  turf.  Yes, 
she  had  made  no  mistake,  it  was  Jim  Bevanwood.  And 
he  was  here,  here  all  the  time,  within  a  mile  or  so  of 
his  own  door  all  these  weeks.  She  felt  a  sensation  of 
anger  against  him,  as  though  he  had  played  her  a  trick. 
She  would  awaken  him  and  ask  him  why  he  had  done  it, 
what  he  meant.  No,  she  would  not — she  was  naturally 
cautious.  He  might  refuse  to  tell  her  anything,  might 
even  refuse  to  tell  her  where  he  was  living. 

She  would  not  awaken  him;  on  the  contrary,  she 
would  watch  him,  wait  and  watch,  and,  if  possible,  fol- 
low him. 

There  was  cover  in  plenty — the  whole  place  was  thkk 
with  clumps  of  gorse,  from  out  of  which  rabbits  now 
and  again  scampered  and  then,  at  sight  of  her,  shot  back 
with  a  flick  of  their  white  tails. 

She  crouched  down  beside  a  thicket  of  gorse  and 
waited.  She  waited  an  hour.  The  hum  of  the  insects 
made  her  drowsy ;  then  she  heard  a  sound.  It  was  Jim's 
awakening — a  prodigious  yawn.  Lifting  her  head  she 
could  see  him  stretching  his  arms. 

"I  must  'a  slep'  hours,"  she  heard  him  mutter. 
"What'll  she  think  o'  me  being  away  all  this  time?" 

189 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"She "  Sheila  thought.  "She!  What  she?  Good 

heavens !"  Sudden  dread,  sudden  suspicion  came  to  her. 
She  clenched  her  hands  tightly.  Supposing  that  they 
were  together,  these  two;  supposing  the  man  had  been 

such  a  fool  as  to No,  she  would  not  believe  it, 

could  not  believe  it.  It  was  some  woman  that  was  keep- 
ing house  for  him.  But  where  was  the  house?  She 
would  find*out,  she  would  soon  know. 

He  had  risen  and  she  crouched  lower  against  the 
gorse.  He  was  walking  away  now,  down  the  slope  of 
the  hill,  and  she  rose  and  followed  him.  Now  and 
again  she  dropped  and  hid  behind  the  gorse  in  case  he 
should  look  round.  But  Jim  Bevanwood,  never  dream- 
ing that  he  was  being  followed,  did  not  look  round  once. 
So  he  made 'his  way  back  to  the  dip  in  the  hill  and  the 
little  cottage  where  'Nid  was  anxiously  waiting  for 
him. 


190 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
"THE  FOOL" 

ID  felt  sick  with  fear.  The  long  morning  was 
passing  and  he  had  not  come  back.  Never  before 
had  he  gone  without  leaving  word.  What  did  it  mean 
now?  Did  it  mean  that  he  repented  his  forgiveness  of 
her,  that  he  wished  to  see  her  no  more,  that  he  had  gone, 
never  to  return?  It  was  so  easy  to  believe  this;  yet  he 
had  been  so  good  to  her,  he  had  welcomed  her  in  so 
kindly  a  fashion. 

Billy  Wasser,  whistling  merrily,  had  gone  off  on  his 
bicycle  to  Horswood.  Billy  had  no  fears  for  the  future, 
no  ideas  came  into  Billy's  head.  Jim  would  come  back 
all  right,  of  course  he  would.  Why  shouldn't  he?  Billy 
did  not  worry,  he  rode  off  blithely  in  the  beautiful  calm 
morning  air,  and  'Nid  stood  at  the  door  of  the  little 
cottage  watching  and  waiting  with  anxious  eyes  and  a 
heart  that  felt  sore  and  empty. 

And  then  he  came.  She  could  scarcely  believe  it  when 
she  did  see  him.  She  had  built  up  such  tragedies, 
she  had  seen  herself  left  here  lonely,  forsaken,  she  had 
even  begun  to  taste  of  the  bitterness  of  it.  But  he  was 
here;  he  came  with  his  long,  swinging  strides,  walking 
beside  the  stream.  He  looked  at  her  and  smiled. 

"Hello  'Nid,"  he  said.  "Why,  what's  the  matter,  little 
'un?"  For  she  had  suddenly  broken  down,  the  relief 
of  seeing  him  was  so  great.  She  hid  her  face  in  her 

191 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

hands  and  sobbed  so  that  the  sobbing  shook  her  small, 
frail  body. 

"Why?"  he  said  gently.  "Why,  little  'un,  Kid,  don't 
— don't  cry.  There's  nothing  to  cry  about,  so  fur  as  I 
know.  You  ain't  in  pain,  you  ain't  hurt  yourself,  have 
you?"  It  was  his  first  thought — tears  suggested  pain 
to  him.  Children  cried  when  they  were  in  pain. 

"No,  no,"  she  said.  "It's— it's  not  that,  only  I— I 
thought  you — you  had  gone,"  she  gasped. 

"Gone!"  He  hardly  seemed  to  understand  for  a 
moment.  "  'Nid,  gone !  You  don't  suppose  I'd  go  and 
leave  you  here  without  a  word,  just  go,  do  you  ?" 

"I— I  didn't,"  she  sobbed.  "I  didn't;  but,  oh— oh,  I 
am  glad,  so  glad  that  you  have  come  back."  She  lifted 
her  great  eyes  to  his,  swimming  now  in  tears,  seeming 
the  brighter  and  the  bigger  for  those  same  tears. 

"Never  think  I'd  go  without  a  word.  When — when 

the  time  comes  for  me  to  go,  'Nid "  He  paused. 

"When  the  time  comes  I'll  tell  you,  mate." 

"Mate."  She  seemed  to  shiver  at  the  word;  to  him 
perhaps  it  had  no  meaning.  Many  a  man  had  been  mate 
to  him,  some  few  women  perhaps;  but — to  her.  She 
was  his  mate,  his  mate  in  life — she  should  have  been, 
would  have  been,  but  for  herself,  her  own  fault. 

"You — you  haven't  had  your  breakfast,  Jim,"  she  said. 

"No,  and  I'm  hungry,"  he  said. 

She  hurried  before  him  into  the  cottage,  glad  and 
eager  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  him.  Her  fears  and 
horroFe  were  forgotten ;  she  was  like  a  child  pleased  and 
proud  that  she  had  something  to  do. 

Jim  did  ndt  follow  her  at  once,  he  went  to  the  door  and 
stood  there  and  stared  thoughtfully  at  the  noisy  little 
stream.  Her  tears,  her  joy  at  seeing  him  wrung  his 
192 


"The  Fool" 

heart.  It  might  once  have  meant  so  much,  now  it  must 
mean  so  little.  If  only  she  had  found  out  the  truth 
before — before.  He  shivered  suddenly,  his  face  seemed 
to  turn  grey  and  old.  It  was  too  late  now,  too  late.  She 
would  never  belong  to  him. 

The  other  woman  had  followed.  She  stood  now 
screened  by  the  bushes;  she  was  leaning  against  a  tree. 
She  could  see  the  little  cottage ;  she  had  witnessed  the 
meeting  of  the  two. 

"So  that's  it,"  Sheila  Care  said  to  herself.  She  said 
it  many  times  over.  She  had  never  suspected  it,  never 
dreamed  that  they  might  be  together.  It  had  come  as 
a  shock,  her  brain  was  still  dulled  by  it.  She  could 
see  him  now  standing  by  the  cottage;  she  had  seen  the 
girl  hurry  in. 

These  two  here,  living  together.  "The  fool,  the  fool," 
she  muttered.  "The  senseless,  dishonourable  fool."  She 
gripped  her  hands  tightly.  "She  came  whining  back  to 
him  and  he  took  her  in.  He  is  the  sort  that  would, 
What  could  one  expect  from  such  a  fool  ?  James  Bevan- 
wood  is  not  a  gentleman."  She  thought  of  the  old  say- 
ing anent  silk  purses  and  sows'  ears  and  laughed  vicious- 
ly to  herself.  But  she  was  angry,  furiously  angry.  She 
felt  that  in  some  way  she  had  been  cheated,  made  a 
fool  of — these  two  here  together,*living  in  this  place. 

She  did  not  move,  yet  she  did  not  make  her  presence 
known.  'Nid's  presence  here  had  upset  all  her  plans. 
Then  she  heard  a  voice  calling: 

"Jim,  Jim,  breakfast  is  ready."  It  might  have  been 
some  happy  young  wife  calling  to  her  man. 

"Coming,"  he  answered,  and  went  in.  And  Sheila 
Clare  picked  her  way  daintily  back  along  the  edge  of 
the  stream  till  she  came  to  the  high  ground. 

193 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"So  she  went  back  to  him  and  he  took  her  in,  but  he's 
ashamed  to  bring  her  back  to  his  own  house/'  she  mut- 
tered. "Does  the  fool  expect  to  go  on  living  in  that 
hole  of  a  place  all  his  life?  Is  he  going  to  keep  her 
shut  up  there?  Even  she  won't  stand  that  when  once 
her  remorse  has  worn  off." 

Twice  she  looked  back  at  the  cottage  down  in  the  dip 
of  the  hills.  She  could  see  the  broken,  old  thatched  roof, 
the  thin  curl  of  blue  smoke  coming  from  the  wood  fire ; 
then  she  saw  it  no  more.  Sheila  Clare  walked  the  miles 
back  home  in  a  vile  temper.  What  should  she  do  ?  How 
act  next?  These  two  had  come  together  again.  The 
man  was  hopeless,  of  course,  a  man  without  any  sense 
of  honour  and  easily  led,  easily  beguiled.  The  woman, 
perhaps  she  had  some  sense  of  shame  left,  she  might  be 
stung  into  action.  Yes,  it  must  be  the  woman  she  would 
deal  with,  Sheila  Clare  resolved. 

But  how  should  she  deal  with  her?  It  was  for  her 
to  decide,  to  plan  and  act  on  later.  So  she  went  away 
across  the  swelling  green  Downs,  and  down  in  the  hol- 
low those  two  never  dreamed  of  her  coming,  never  let 
a  thought  of  her  cast  a  shadow  on  them. 

"Well,  if  you  aren't  getting  to  be  quite  a  cook,"  Jim 
said.  She  flushed  with  pleasure,  her  eyes  glistened.  She 
had  put  all  her  soul  into  this  simple,  hurriedly  prepared 
meal  for  him,  had  done  it  gladly,  joyfully  as  a  task  of 
honour  and  great  happiness. 

And  when  it  was  over  and  he  had  done  justice  to  it 
he  sat  at  the  door  smoking  his  pipe  and  staring  across 
at  the  hills  vfith  an  inscrutable  look  in  his  eyes.  She 
washed  up  the  plates  and  dishes  and  sang  over  her 
work.  He  heard  her  voice  as  she  sang.  She  had  a 
sweet  voice,  untrained  and  uncultivated,  but  he  knew 
IQ4 


"The  Fool" 

nothing  and  cared  nothing  about  that.  He  liked  to  hear 
her  sing ;  a  child  might  sing  as  she  did  from  sheer  glad- 
ness of  heart.  And  then  presently  Billy  Wasser  came 
speeding  down  the  chalk  road  on  his  bicycle. 

"Hello!"  he  said. 

"Hello !"  Jim  said,  and  went  on  smoking. 

"Singing,  ain't  she  ?"  Billy  said.  He  paused  to  listen. 
Jim  nodded. 

"Sings  nice,  don't  she?"  the  boy  said.  He  let  his 
bicycle  down  softly  against  the  wall  and  stood  listen- 
ing. 

"I  like  'er  being  'ere,  after  all,"  he  said. 

"You  do  ?"  Jim  said. 

"Yes,  don't  you?" 

Jim  nodded.  Yes,  he  did.  He  did  not  want  to  admit 
it  to  himself  nor  to  Billy,  but  he  did.  He  liked  her 
being  here,  yet  there  was  something  that  weighed  on  his 
heart,  that  prevented  the  happiness  he  might  have  known. ' 
If  only  she  had  been  like  this  before,  long  ago.  But 
it  was  too  late  now,  wishes  were  idle  things. 

And  so  another  day  passed  in  the  cottage  down  in 
the  dell  and  another  and  yet  another,  and  the  folk  in 
the  village  were  growing  used  to  seeing  Sheila  Clare 
come  of  a  morning  tramping  through  the  village  and 
making  her  way  to  the  green  Downs  alone.  She  missed 
but  few  days  and  always  she  made  to  the  same  place, 
the  spot  where  she  had  stood  hidden  by  the  bushes  and 
had  watched  the  little  cottage.  She  came  to  watch  it 
every  day,  waiting  for  the  chance,  but  it  was  days  before 
it  came.  She  saw  Jim  Bevanwood  most  days,  sometimes 
the  girl,  sometimes  the  village  boy.  But  one  day,  cross- 
ing the  Downs  by  herself,  she  saw  two  figures  ahead  of 
her,  a  man  and  a  boy.  They  were  coming  in  her  direc- 

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James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

tion,  and  she  crouched  down  and  hid  behind  the  gorse 
to  let  them  pass.  They  did  not  see  her,  but  went  on 
their  way.  She  rose  and  watched  them  till  they  were  out 
of  sight,  or  but  faint  specks  of  black  in  the  green  dis- 
tance, then  she  hurried  on.  Her  chance  had  come. 


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CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  SHADOW 

JIM  and  Billy  had  gone  to  the  mill  for  some  flour ;  the 
weight  would  be  too  much  for  Billy,  so  Jim  had  gone 
with  him  and  'Nid  was  left  to  herself.    This  expedition 
for  flour  had  been  talked  of  for  some  days  and  'Nid 
had  planned  her  own  day  when  they  should  be  gone. 

Now  she  had  the  fire  going  and  a  great  iron  kettle 
of  water  on  it.  She  had  filled  the  big  tub  Jim  had  pro- 
vided by  cutting  a  barrel  in  half. 

'Nid  was  going  to  have  a  washing-day  and  there  was 
much  to  be  washed.  She  had  rolled  her  sleeves  up  over 
her  fair,  delicate,  pretty  arms,  had  tucked  up  her  dress 
to  show  her  slim  ankles. 

She  was  like  a  child  playing  at  housekeeping.  She 
worried  no  more.  The  day  would  come  when  she  and 
Jim  must  part,  he  to  go  back  to  a  life  and  a  place  that 
claimed  him.  But  he  had  promised  her  it  would  not  be 
yet.  And  when  he  went  he  would  tell  her  first.  She  had 
no  reason  to  fear  now  and  she  cheated  herself  into 
happiness,  the  happiness  of  the  moment. 

So  she  sang  to  herself  as  she  poured  the  boiling  water 
into  the  tub,  as  she  thrust  the  clothes  well  down  with 
the  stick  he  had  cut  for  her.  And  then  a  shadow  fell 
across  the  open  doorway  and  'Nid  looked  up  and  the 
song  on  her  lips  was  stilled  and  silent. 

Sheila  Clare  walked  into  the  room. 

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James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  "don't  let  me  disturb  you." 

'Nid's  lips  quivered.    "What  do  you  want?"  she  said. 

"To  speak  to  you.  What  else  should  I  want?  I'm 
sorry  for  him,  sorry,  he  was  always  a  weak  man  and 
a  fool.  I  didn't  know  how  weak  till  now,  to  take  you 

back  after "     The  woman  paused.     "There  isn't  a 

man  living  who  would  have  taken  you  back  but  this 
one.  I  suppose  you  think  you  can  dupe  him  and  cheat 

him  because  he  is  ignorant  and  a  fool,  you "  she 

paused.  "There  isn't  another  man  who  would.  I  thought 
you  had  some  sense  of  decency,  but  even  you  have  failed 
me  and  failed  yourself.  Fancy  coming  back  after  that — 
whining  to  him  for  shelter  and  forgiveness !" 

"I — I  ain't  ever  asked  him  to  forgive,"  'Nid  said.  Her 
breast  rose  and  fell,  "No!  no!  I  never  asked  him  to 
forgive.  I  never  thought  of  that,  I  never  hoped  for  it, 
never  dreamed  of  it.  I — I  just  came  back,  that's  all. 
I  didn't  even  know  he  was  here." 

"A  decent  woman  wouldn't  have  come,"  Sheila  said. 
"You  are  lower  than  I  thought  you  were." 

"He — he  doesn't  mind  me  coming;  he's  even  glad  I 
am  here,"  'Nid  said. 

Sheila  laughed.  "Glad.  He  tells  you  so;  he's  such  a 
soft  fool,  he  doesn't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings.  Can't 
you  imagine  how  he  hates  you  ?  Your  presence  reminds 
him  of — of  what  you  are,  what  you  have  done.  Yes, 
he  must  hate  you  even.  But  he  doesn't  tell  you  so, 
no,  he's  too  soft-hearted  for  that.  But  don't  think  that 
he  forgives ;  he's  not  the  man  to  forgive.  There  isn't  a 
man  living  who  would  forgive  you  and  take  you  back, 
not  even  Jim  ^Bevanwood." 

"Why — why  have  you  come?"  'Nid  said.    She  pressed 
her  hands  against  her  breast. 
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The  Coming  of  the  Shadow 

"To  tell  you  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I  pity  you  and  him, 
*too,"  Sheila  said.  "To  tell  you  that  if  you  have  any 
sense  of  fitness  you  will  go.  Can't  you  understand  that 
your  presence  here,  the  sight  of  you  every  day  of  his 
life,  must  be  torture  to  him,  to  this  man?  You  were 
his  wife;  you  are  face  to  face  with  him  every  day  now. 
You  were  false  to  him,  you  brought  shame  on  his  name 
and  a  good  name,  it  was  till  you  blackened  it." 

"But— but  I  didn't  know,  I  didn't  know !  Oh,  I  didn't 
understand  properly,"  'Nid  cried.  "Don't  you  under- 
stand, I  didn't  understand  till "  She  paused. 

Sheila  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "You  take  me  for  a 
fool.  Where  did  I  first  see  you?  In  a  dirty  little  Lon- 
don laundry — a  fine  place  for  perfect  innocence  to  flour- 
ish, eh?"  she  sneered.  "Of  course  I  believe  you.  You 

were  so  unworldly,  you Do  you  think  he  believes 

you?  Do  you  think  he  doesn't  hate  the  memory  that 
every  sight  of  you  must  bring  into  his  mind?" 

"You — you  don't  think  I  ought  to  have  come  back?" 

"Think  you  ought  to  have  come  back?  I  don't  think 
any  woman  in  her  sense  would  have  come  back.  She 
must  be  dead  to  self-respect  and  pride  to  come  back, 
to  lick  the  hand  of  the  man  she  has  wronged  as  you 
wronged  him.  What's  the  end  of  it  going  to  be  ?  Answer 
me.  What  is  the  end  of  it  going  to  be?  Do  you  think 
he'll  take  you  back  to  your — to  his  house  and  acknowl- 
edge you  again  before  the  world  as  his  wife?" 

"No,"  'Nid  said  quietly,  "I  don't  hope  for  that,  miss." 

"Then  what  do  you  hope  for?" 

"I — I  haven't  thought.  I  don't  suppose  there  is  much 
hope  for  me.  I've  just  tried  to  be  content  and  happy  in 
the  present.  I  haven't  dared  to  think  about  the  future. 
He'll  go  back  one  day — he'll  have  to,  very  likely,  when 

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James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

the  summer  ends,  he'll  have  to  go  back,  and  then " 

"And  then?"  Sheila  asked 

"I  don't  know.  Maybe  I  shall  be  able  to  live  on  here 
by  myself.  I  haven't  thought,  I  don't  want  to  think." 

"So  you  are  living  in  a  fool's  paradise  and  doing  this 
man  a  wrong  by  cheating  yourself  and  him." 

"I  have  not  cheated  him." 

"Has  he  asked  you  nothing?  Have  you  told  him 
nothing  ?" 

"No,"  'Nid  said  simply.  "I  just  came  back  and  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  me  and  took  me  in,  that's  all." 

"And  there  was  nothing  said,  nothing  of  the  past, 
nothing  of  what  you  did,  nothing  of — of  that  other  man, 
my  brother?" 

"No,"  'Nid  said.  "We've  never  spoken  about  any- 
thing." 

Sheila  stared  across  the  little  room.  How  could  she 
hope  to  understand  such  people  as  these?  Her  voice 
was  harsh  with  impatience. 

"Can't  you  realise  that  you  are  doing  this  man  a  great 
wrong,  that  you  are  taking  advantage  of  his  weakness 
of  character,  his  stupid  good  nature,  his  dislike  to  cause 
pain?  Can't  you  realise  that  he  must  hate  to  see  you, 
you  who  were  once  his  wife,  and  who  brought  shame  and 
dishonour  to  him?  Can't  you  see  it,  or  are  you  blind?" 

"I  didn't  think  of  it,"  'Nid  said.  "I  tried  not  to."  She 
twisted  her  hands  together  nervously. 

"What  ought  I  to  do?"  she  said. 

"You  ought  never  to  have  come  here  to  him.  You 
ought  to  have  avoided  him,  never  seen  him  again  or 
let  him  see  you." 

"You  think  I  ought  to  go?"  'Nid  said. 

"Can  there  be  two  thoughts  on  the  subject?"  Sheila 
200 


The  Coming  of  the  Shadow 

said,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "But  for  you  he  would 
probably  have  returned  to  his  home  long  ago.  As  it  is,  I 
suppose  he  is  too  weak-willed  to  do  so,  too  good-natured 
to  want  to  cause  you  pain.  But  sooner  or  later  he  must 
come  back.  What's  the  use  of  your  living  on  like  this, 
knowing  that  the  end  must  soon  be  in  sight,  that  he 
must  leave  you?  Tell  me,  you  do  not  think — don't 
cheat  yourself  for  one  moment  into  thinking — that  he 
will  forgive  you  and  take  you  back,  let  you  again  fill 
your  place  as  mistress  of  his  home,  as  his  wife,  you  who 
have  dragged  his  good  name  in  the  mire,  you  who  have 
done  the  things  for  which  no  woman  is  ever  forgiven? 
He's  a  fool,  yet  not  so  great  a  fool  as  that." 

"No,"  'Nid  said.  "No,  I— I  don't  hope  for— for  any- 
thing. I've  simply  tried  to  believe  that  there  isn't  no 
future  at  all.  I've  just  lived  in  each  day;  to-day  is 
enough.  I  haven't  thought  of  to-morrow — I  didn't 
dare." 

"But  to-morrow  comes,"  Sheila  said  "I  am  sorry  for 
you,"  she  said,  "sorry.  I  don't  think  it  was  all  your 
fault;  I  blame  my  brother  most.  He  knew  the  world, 
you  were  ignorant,  though  I  will  never  believe  innocent ! 
Still,  I  am  sorry  for  you;  I  blame  Geoffrey.  But  who- 
ever is  to  blame,  the  fact  remains.  And  I  find  you 
here " 

"I  ought  to  go?" 

"You  ought  to  go.  You  ought  never  to  be  here  at 
all;  it  is  a  sin  against  that  man  who  is  too  weak  and 
good-natured  to  resent  it.  But  do  you  think  he  doesn't 
resent  it  in  his  heart?" 

"I — I  s'pose  he  does,"  'Nid  said  miserably.  "I  s'pose 
he  must,  only  I  never  thought  of  it  till  you  told  me. 
If  I  had  better  go,  then — then  I  will  go !" 

2OI 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Of  course !"  Sheila  said.  "Of  course,  and  soon.  You 
should  not  delay — the  sooner  the  better;  but,  as  I  said, 
I  am  sorry  for  you,  I'd  like  to  help  you.  My  brother 
was  the  cause;  I  feel  myself  involved  in  this,  in  some 
way  responsible.  You  will  need  money ;  I  have  brought 
some.  You  had  better  take  it.  Go  away,  find  some 
place  and  write  to  me.  Let  me  know  where  you  are 
and  I  will  see  what  can  be  done  for  you."  She  put  the 
money  on  the  table.  "At  least  be  decent  enough  to  go 
at  once !"  she  said. 

She  glanced  at  'Nid,  she  saw  the  white,  tragic  little 
face  and  she  knew  she  had  won. 

"You're  going;  it  will  be  the  greatest  benefit,  the 
greatest  blessing  you  can  bestow  on  James  Bevanwood. 
It  is  what  he  in  his  heart  must  wish,  but  does  not  like 
to  put  into  words!"  And  then  she  went.  She  went  by 
the  way  she  had  come — she  walked  along  the  stream 
and  through  the  little  coppice  and  came  out  at  the  base 
of  the  slope;  and  as  she  went  she  did  not  see  Billy 
Wasser  who  was  speeding  back. 

But  he  saw  her  and  knew  her  at  once.  What  was 
she  here  for?  It  was  Miss  Clare,  he  knew  her — who 
in  the  village  did  not?  He  stood  watching  her,  round- 
eyed.  Billy  went  on  slowly  to  the  house.  He  had  come 
back  for  a  sack — the  miller  had  explained  his  inability 
to  supply  sacks,  so  Jim  was  waiting  at  the  mill  and  he, 
Billy,  had  come  back  for  the  necessary  sack.  He  found 
one  in  the  kitchen;  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  large  tub 
full  of  steaming  water.  He  looked  into  the  tub  and  saw 
clothes  lying-in  the  bottom  of  it,  but  of  'Nid  there  was 
no  sign.  He  called  out  and  she  answered  him  from 
above. 

"I  come  back  for  a  sack!"  he  shouted.  "Now  I  be 
202 


The  Coming  of  the  Shadow 

going  again!"  He  paused.  Should  he  mention  that  he 
had  seen  Sheila  Clare?  No,  it  was  difficult  to  carry 
on  conversation  at  the  top  of  his  voice;  he  would  leave 
it  till  he  came  back.  So  he  took  the  sack  and  trudged 
off  up  the  hillside  and  to  the  distant  mill,  and  then  he 
forgot  Sheila  Clare. 

The  sack  was  filled  and  it  was  heavy,  and  it  was  a 
long  way  to  carry  it  back.  Jim  slung  it  across  his  broad 
shoulders,  but  even  he,  strong  as  he  was,  felt  in  need  of 
rest  and  an  occasional  stop,  so  they  progressed  but  slow- 
ly. Presently  they  sat  down  under  the  scanty  shade  of  a 
furze  bush  and  made  their  meal  off  bread  and  cheese. 
Billy  stretched  himself  out  on  the  turf.  He  had  for- 
gotten all  about  Sheila  Clare — his  memory  was  never 
of  the  best,  and  there  were  so  many  other  things  to  dis- 
tract it  now. 

They  had  reckoned  that  getting  the  flour  would  be 
the  better  part  of  an  all-day  job;  the  delay  occasioned 
by  the  sack  had  lengthened  the  task  considerably,  so 
that  it  was  near  the  end  of  the  afternoon  when  they 
came  back  in  sight  of  the  cottage. 

"I  shan't  be  sorry  to  get  it  down,  Billy,"  Jim  said. 

"Let's  take  a  turn !"  Billy  said. 

"You!"  Jim  laughed.  "No,  we'll  soon  be  there,  old 
man." 

He  looked  eagerly.  He  hoped,  almost  expected  to  see 
her  standing  there  by  the  stream  watching  for  them,  but 
he  saw  nothing.  He  became  conscious,  too,  that  there 
was  no  thin  coil  of  smoke  ascending  from  the  chimney. 
He  wondered.  'Nid  would  be  expecting  them,  surely, 
and  knowing  that  they  had  gone  short  of  food  would 
have  prepared  a  meal  for  them.  He  wondered  most  of 
all  at  the  absence  of  the  smoke. 

203 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Billy  put  his  two  hands  to  his  mouth  and  shouted. 

"She'll  'ear !"  he  said,  and  he  smiled  in  anticipation. 

But  she  did  not  hear;  there  was  no  sign  of  the  little 
figure. 

"Funny!"  Billy  said.  "She  always  'card  me  shout 
before."  He  tried  again,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

So  they  went  down  to  the  valley  and  gained  the  stream 
and  came  to  the  cottage  and  the  door  was  closed. 

"'Nid,  'Nid!"  Billy  shouted.  "'Ere  we  be!  Open 
the  door,  'tis  me  and  Jim!"  But  the  door  remained 
fast. 

It  was  Billy  who  opened  it.  He  looked  in  and  turned 
to  stare  in  wonder  at  Jim.  The  little  kitchen  was  neat 
and  tidy,  the  things  that  she  had  washed  were  hanging 
out  on  a  line  outside  the  cottage,  the  fire  in  the  hearth 
was  all  laid  ready  for  lighting,  the  table  was  laid  for 
a  meal,  but  of  'Nid  no  sign. 

"'Nid!"  Jim  shouted.  " 'Nid, 'Nid,  girl,  'Nid !"  But 
his  voice  was  unanswered  save  by  the  echoes. 

"Funny  'er  going  out !"  Billy  said.  "Maybe  she  came 
to  meet  we."  He  paused.  "Hello!"  he  said.  He  took 
up  a  folded  paper  from  the  table  and  looked  at  it.  On 
it  was  written  the  one  word — "Jim." 

"For  you,"  he  said. 

Jim's  hand  shook  a  little  as  he  stretched  out  to  take 
the  paper ;  he  fumbled  with  it  awkwardly  as  he  opened  it. 

"I  know  now  I  did  not  ought  ever  to  have  come,  it 
was  wrong.  But  I  was  so  tired  and  so  lonely,  and  I 
hadn't  anywhere  else  to  go  to,  but  I  know  it  was  wrong. 
I  ought  to  have  turned  back  when  I  see  you  at  the 
door,  but  I  cbuldn't.  I'm  going  now,  I  never  asked  you 
to  forgive  me  nothing,  Jim,  I  never  hoped  for  that!  I 
didn't  really  know  how  wicked  I  was,  I  never  under- 
204 


The  Coming  of  the  Shadow 

stood!  I  shan't  come  back  no  more,  it's  good-bye  this 
time,  Jim,  and  thank  you  for  being  good  to  me,  'NiD." 

He  read  it  through  and  looked  at  Billy  Wasser. 

"She's — she's  gone!"  he  said.  "She's  gone,  Billy,  and 
— and  she  ain't  coming  back!" 


305 


CHAPTER  XXX 

GONE 

BILLY  stared  at  Jim  round-eyed. 
"She'll  come  back,"  he  said.     "Why  should  she 
'ave  gone,  Jim?     Jim,  why  should  she  'ave  gone  like 
this?    We  was  all  so  'appy  together,  Jim!" 

"  'Appy !"  Jim  said,  "yes,  'appy.  'Thank  you  for 
being  good  to  me.' "  He  read  her  last  words  again. 
"Being  good  to  her "  How  could  he  ever  be  any- 
thing but  good  to  her?  Now  she  had  gone.  Why — 
why?  Why,  he  questioned  himself  suddenly,  why  should 
she  have  gone  like  this?  Yesterday  morning  there  had 
been  no  signs  to  suggest  that  she  should  creep  away 
like  this.  What  had  happened? 

"I  s'pect  it's  'er  coming,"  Billy  said,  answering  Jim's 
unspoken  question. 

"  'Er — 'er  coming !     What  do  you  mean  ?"  Jim  said. 

"  'Er — Miss,  what's-'er-name,  'er  up  at  your  'ouse ; 
she's  been  'ere  to-day;  I  seen  'er  when  I  come  back  for 
the  sack." 

"What  ?"  Jim  thundered. 

*r 

Billy  gave  a  jump. 

"It's  right,  Jim,"  he  said.  "Don't  'oiler  at  me  like  that. 
I  seen  'er,  I  did ;  she  was  sneaking  off.  She'd  been  'ere. 
I  don't  know  'ow  I  come  to  forget  it.  I  seen  'er, 
Miss  Clare." 

"Sheila  Clare  here?"  How  did  she  find  out?  How 
206 


Gone 

did  she  come  to  know  and,  knowing,  what  right  had 
she  to  come  here?  A  sudden  mad  fury  came  to  Jim. 
He  laid  hold  of  Billy  by  the  shoulder  with  a  grip  that 
made  Billy  wince. 

"Billy,  you  are  sure  of  this,  you  are  sure  you  see 
'er  'ere?" 

"I  did,"  Billy  said.  "I  did,  Jim,  straight,  and  I  fergot 
to  tell  you.  It  was  when  1  come  back  for  the  sack; 
I  seen  her  down  by  the  stream,  Jim.  She  was  going 
away.  I  watched  her  up  the  Downs,  then  when  I  come 
here  there  was  a  tub  full  of  clothes  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  but  'Nid  wasn't  'ere.  She  was  upstairs — getting 
ready  to  go,  maybe,  but  she  must  have  stayed  to  tidy 
up.  Very  like  she  see  me  coming,  Jim,  and  hid  so's  I 
shouldn't  see  'er.  Maybe  something  Miss  Clare  said 
to  'er  made  'Nid  make  up  her  mind  to  go." 

"Yes,"  Jim  said.    "Yes,  that's  it,  that's  it." 

"Only  I  be  going  to  find  her,"  Billy  said.  "She  won't 
'ave  gone  a  wonderful  long  way.  She  'ad  to  stay  a 
bit  to  clear  up  and  lay  the  fire  and  the  tea  and  all  that — 
she  carn't  'ave  gone  fur,  Jim.  Then  she  'ad  to  write 
that  there  letter  to  you.  Writing  a  letter  takes  a  long 
time.  I'll  find  'er/'  he  added,  and  his  voice  was  filled 
with  resolution.  "Betcher  I  find  'er,  Jim." 

"Find  her,  old  man,  and  bring  her  back,"  Jim  said. 
"Find  her,  yes,  Billy,  lad,  we'll  find  her  if  we  hunt  the 
world  for  her,  but "  And  his  face  darkened  sud- 
denly and  his  eyes  grew  hard  and  fierce.  "I'll  see  her, 
that  woman,  first — I'm  going  now,  Billy,  going  to  see 
Sheila  Clare.  Maybe  she  knows  where  'Nid  has  gone." 

"You  make  'er  tell  you,  Jim,"  Billy  said.  "Make  'er— 
and  me,  I'll  go  and  'unt  for  'er  now  and  I'll  find  'er,  I 
will." 

207 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

He  forgot  that  he  was  tired,  that  he  was  hungry,  he 
forgot  everything  save  the  pain  and  the  mad,  passionate 
fury  against  Sheila  Clare.  How  had  she  dared  to  come 
here?  By  what  means  had  she  found  out  their  hiding- 
place?  What  had  she  said  to  'Nid?  Jim  was  off.  He 
breasted  the  hill;  he  strode  away  across  the  Downs. 
Exercise,  instead  of  soothing  him,  seemed  only  to  in- 
flame his  anger  against  the  woman.  He  reached  the  vil- 
lage in  the  dusk. 

The  villagers  stared  at  him,  at  his  unfamiliar  figure; 
they  greeted  him  with  smiles  and  bobs,  and  wondered 
that  he  never  even  gave  them  a  glance.  He  strode  among 
them  and  on  to  his  own  home.  His  clothes  had  suffered 
since  he  had  last  left  it ;  he  was  powdered  with  the  flour 
from  the  mill  where  he  had  been  all  day.  His  boots  were 
ragged  and  worn,  his  face  burned  brown  by  the  sun. 
He  wore  no  collar  or  tie  and  he  looked  as  little  like  Sir 
James  Curtis  Bevanwood,  master  of  this  fine  house,  as 
a  man  might  look.  The  manservant  who  opened  the 
door  to  him  stared  at  him,  taking  him  for  a  moment 
for  some  audacious  tramp  who  dared  to  present  him- 
self at  the  hall  door,  but  the  next  moment  he  knew  him. 

"Where  is  Miss  Clare?"  Jim  demanded. 

"Miss— Miss  Clare,  sir?" 

"You  heard  me,  didn't  you?"  Jim  thundered. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  yes,  sir!  I  heard,  Sir 
James.  Miss  Clare  is  in — in  the  drawing-room,  I  think, 
and " 

Jim  passed  him  by,  then  stopped. 

"Miss  Clare  was  out  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  sir."v 

"Walking?" 

"I — I  believe  so,  sir." 
208 


Gone 

"She  went  far,  eh?  Out  some  time?  Answer  me, 
you  fool,  don't  stand  gaping  at  me.  I  say  Miss  Clare 
was  out  walking  this  morning  and  she  was  a  long  time 
gone  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  man  said.  "Miss  Clare  has  been  walk- 
ing a  lot  lately,  taking  long  walks  most  mornings  now. 
She  was  out  about  three  hours,  Sir  James." 

Jim  nodded.  The  black  fury  that  filled  him  was  at 
fever-point  now.  He  flung  open  the  door  and  strode  into 
the  drawing-room.  As  usual  when  he  entered  that 
room  of  precious  nicknacks,  he  blundered  into  some- 
thing. It  was  a  little  table  overcrowded  with  china;  it 
fell  with  a  crash  and  he  trampled  on  the  valuable  frag- 
ments. 

"Good — good  gracious!"  Sheila  Clare  started  up. 
"Who — oh,  Jim,  you — you!  How  nice!  What  a  sur- 
prise !  Where  have  you  been,  you  bad " 

"Silence,"  he  said.  "It's  not  for  you  to  ask  me  no 
questions,  but  for  me  to  ask  you.  Where  'ave  you  been 
and  what  'ave  you  been  doing?  Answer  that." 

"Really,  Jim,"  she  said.  "Don't  shout  at  me  like  that, 
you  quite  forget " 

"Answer  me,"  he  said.  "You  'ear  what  I  say?  What 
'ave  you  been  up  to  and  where  was  you  this  morning?" 

"My  poor  nerves,"  she  said.  "You  burst  into  the  room 
like  a  bull  in  a  china  shop  and  then  start  shouting  at 
me.  Jim,  really,  where  are  your  manners,  my  dear 
man?" 

"Understand!"  he  said.  "Don't  play  the  fool!  An- 
swer me,  or  by  'eaven "  He  made  one  stride  to  her 

and  gripped  her  shoulder;  in  his  passion  he  forgot  his 
strength.  She  winced  and  whined. 

"Don't— don't,  you  hurt!  Oh,  you— you  cruel  man! 

209 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Your  hard  fingers  hurt  me,  James  Bevanwood.     Are 
you  mad?" 

"Pretty  near,"  he  said  firmly.  "And  it's  you  as  drove 
me  mad.  'Ang  you  and  curse  your  interfering.  What 
did  you  want  to  come  and  upset  'Nid  and  drive  'er  off 
for?" 

"Really  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said. 

"Liar!"  he  said.    "You  do." 

"Sir  James  Bevanwood,  as  you  insult " 

"I'm  calling  you  by  your  name,"  he  said.  "I  say  liar, 
and  liar  you  are.  You  went  to  the  cottage  this  morning, 
you  saw  'Nid.  What  lies  did  you  tell  'er  to  drive  'er  to 
go  away?  Answer  me.  By  'eaven,  you  shall  if — if  I 
choke  the  truth  out  of  you." 

She  saw  his  fury  and  she  was  frightened.  This  man 
she  had  mocked  at,  jeered  at,  laughed  at,  this  puppet 
ready  to  dance  when  she  pulled  the  string — he  was  a 
man  after  all  and  a  big  man,  fierce,  strong  and  powerful. 

"You — you  hurt  me,"  she  whimpered. 

"You've  'urt  me  badly— badly,"  he  said.  "Why  did 
you  go  there?" 

"I  haven't  been  out  of  the  house  to-day." 

"Liar!"  he  said.  He  strode  to  the  door.  "Burton, 
you,  Burton,  come  here."  The  man  had  been  lurking 
about  the  hall  filled  with  curiosity  concerning  Sir  James' 
unexpected  return. 

"Oh,  really,  you  needn't  bring  the  servants  into  this." 

Burton  stood  at  the  door. 

"This  woman  was  out  this  morning?"  Jim  said.  He 
pointed  at  Sheila  Clare. 

"Miss— Miss*  Clare " 

"Answer  me.     I  put  a  question.     I  say  this  woman 
was  out  walking  for  some  hours  this  morning?" 
210 


Gone 

"Yes,  yes,  sir." 

"That'll  do ;  you  go— go,  you  'ear,  go." 

Burton  went— he  was  glad  to  go.  He  hurried  down  to 
the  kitchens. 

"Like  a  madman  he  is,  shouting  and  raving  and  calling 
Miss  Clare  'this  woman'  and — I  don't  know  what — 
what's  happened,  I  don't,  only  I  think  he's  gone  off  his 
head." 

"So  you  come  here,  you  shout  at  me,  bully  me,  ill-treat 
me,  and — and  insult  me  before  the  servants,"  she  said, 
with  a  last  attempt  at  bluster. 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  me  and  'Nid  alone?  What 
on  this  earth  'as  she  and  me  to  do  with  you?"  he  cried. 
"What  did  you  go  and  tell  'er  your  infernal  lies  and 
drive  'er  away  for  ?  Answer,  will  you  ?" 

"I  refuse  to  answer  any  one  who  shouts  at — at  me 
and  uses  such  language.  If  you  were  a  gentleman " 

"I'm  not ;  I'm  just  a  man  who's  goaded  to  see  red  by 
a  lying,  interfering,  mischief-making  woman,  and  that 
woman's  you.  I'm  'ere  for  the  truth,  and,  by  'eaven, 
I'm  going  to  get  it.  You  needn't  try  lying  with  me. 

Maybe  among  your  gentleman  friends "    He  paused 

with  a  short  laugh,  "You  ain't  seen  a  man  in  a  mad  rage 
like  you  see  me,  eh?  You  don't  get  no  soft  speeches 
from  me.  You'll  get  somethink  as'll  choke  the  truth  out 
of  you.  The  truth,  you  'ear,  the  truth.  And  if  you  fool 
with  me,  by  'eaven,  look  out  for  yourself." 

She  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  were  red  with  fury,  he 
looked  like  a  man  beside  himself,  a  dangerous  man,  a 
man  as  dangerous  as  an  infuriated  tiger.  She  felt  fear 
for  herself,  bodily  fear.  She  was  shut  up  with  a  mad- 
man who  would  use  his  strength  if  she  dared  him. 

"It — it  was  for  your  sake.    She — she  had  no  right  to 

211 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

— to  go  back  to  you.  You  were  a  fool  to  take  her  back 
after — after  what  has  happened.  She  is  shamed  and 
disgraced.  She  can  never  take  her  place  beside  you  as 
your  wife.  You  were  weak  to  take  her  back,  I — I  told 
her  that;  I  had  the  right  to  tell  her,  I  was  your  friend." 

"My  friend,"  he  said.  "You?"  He  paused.  "Listen 
to  me,"  he  said  quietly,  so  quietly  that  she  was  startled 
by  the  change  in  him. 

"  'Nid  was  a  child,  as  innocent  as  a  baby.  Your 
brother  lied  to  her,  tricked  'er,  deceived  'er.  Then  'e — 
'e  cast  her  off;  such  men  do,  I  believe — I  'ave  'card  of 
it  before.  She  was  broken-'earted,  lonely  and  'ungry ;  'er 
little  shoes  was  wore  off  'er  little  feet,  and  then  she 
come  to  me — not  to  me,  she  didn't  know  as  I  was  there 
at  the  cottage.  She  crep'  there  to  die,  that's  why  she 
come.  And  I  was  there  and  I  took  'er  by  the  'and  and 
led  'er  in.  You  say  I  didn't  ought  to  take  'er  back;  I 
didn't.  She's  not  my  wife  now.  She  just  come  to  me 
'omeless  and  friendless,  broken  in  'eart  and  spirit  and — 
and  I  took  'er  in  like  I  might  'ave  took  in  a  'ungry 
child.  That's  all.  You — you  don't  understand,  your 
sort  wouldn't.  S'posing  it  'ad  been  one  of  your  friends, 
one  of  these  gentlemen  you're  telling  me  about,  what 
would  'e  'ave  done?" 

"He  would  have  done  what  any  man  who  values  his 
honour  would  have  done — he  would  have  freed  himself 
from  a  woman  unworthy  to  be  his  wife,  he  would  have 
regained  his  freedom." 

"And  got  money — damages  out  of  the  man,  eh?" 
Jim  said  quietly.  "That's  what  a  gentleman  would  'ave 
done,  isn't  it?  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  a  plain  man 
like  me  is  going  to  do.  'E's  going  to  stand  by  'er  and 
'elp  'er.  She  was  a  little  innocent  child  and  that  man, 

212 


Gone 

your  brother,  led  'er  away.  She  didn't  know  of  wrong 
till  'e  showed  'er  what  it  was.  Then,  frightened  and 
broken-'earted,  she  crep'  away  from  'im — 'e  was  tired  of 
'er,  I  suppose.  So  she  come  back  to  me  and  I — I  took 
'er  in.  It  ain't  with  'er,  but  it's  with  the  man  I've  got 
to  settle,  and  I'm  going  to  settle  one  day  in  full."  His 
quietude  was  ominous  after  the  flaring  passion  of  just 
now.  In  his  eyes  were  little  points  of  fire,  his  face 
seemed  to  have  grown  older,  graver,  more  determined. 

"I'm  going  to  wait,"  he  said ;  "wait.  One  day  me  and 
that  man'll  meet — it's  bound  to  be,  it's  going  to  'appen, 
I  know  it — and  then " 

"Yes?"  she  whispered,  then?" 

"Then  I  shall  take  'is  throat  between  my  two  'ands 
and  I  shall  crush  the  life  out  of  'im.  I  shall  kill  'im,"  he 
said,  "that's  all.  It's  low  and  brutal  and  'orrid,  ain't 
it?  I  see  you  shiver  at  it — it  ain't  what  a  gentleman 
would  do,  is  it?  But  it's  what — what  a  plain  man  like 
me  is  going  to  do." 

"You— you  can't!"  she  cried.  "He "  She  paused. 

"  'Nid  is— oh— I  tell  you— 

"I  shall  do  it.    Now,  answer  me,  where  is  she?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"You  drove  'er  away — where  to?" 

"I  tell  you  I  do  not  know,  I  don't  know,  I  don't 
know!" 

"You're  telling  me  the  truth?"  he  asked. 

"I  swear  I  am,  I  swear  it  is  true.  I  saw  her;  I  told 
her  she  was  not  acting  fairly  to  you  to  go  back  to  you. 
I  told  her  you  were  too  kind,  too  foolish,  too  warm- 
hearted. I  told  her  that  it  was  impossible  that  you  could 
forgive,  that  she  could  be  anything  to  you  again.  I  told 

213 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

her  that  it  was  unfair  of  her  to  take  advantage  of  your 
weakness." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "go  on." 

"That  is  all;  I  left  her." 

"And  she  went,  too,  soon  after  you  went,"  he  said. 
"She  left  a  letter  for  me,  thanking  me  for  being  good 
to  'er.  Being  good  to — to  'er."  He  laughed  shakily. 
"All  right,  I'll  find  'er,"  he  said  quietly;  "and  now  I'm 
going  to  settle  with  you." 

"Settle,  I  don't  understand " 

"What  money  'ave  you  got,  all  you  got  in  the  world, 
I  mean?" 

"Very,  very  little." 

"Answer  me,  what  money  'ave  you  got?" 

"Only  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year;  it  is  all  I  have." 

He  nodded.  "You'll  'ave  twice  as  much;  I'll  add 
another  'undred  and  fifty  a  year  to  it.  To-morrow  I'd 
like  you  to  pack  your  things  and  get  out  of  this." 

"You — you  mean  I  am  to  go?" 

"I  said  it.  You're  'is  sister.  I  don't  want  you  to 
be  'ere  when  'e  comes  and  'e's  bound  to  come.  You'd 
best  go.  To-morrow  I  want  you  gone.  I  don't  want 
you  nor  none  of  the  breed  of  you  in  this  'ouse  to-mor- 
row. Go !  I'll  write  to  the  lawyers  about  the  money." 

"Jim!"  she  cried.  "Jim,  I  have  been  your  friend — 
all  I  did  was  for  your  sake.  I  wanted " 

"You'll  go  to-morrow,"  he  said  quietly,  "them's  my 
orders.  I  don't  want  you  'ere  for  many  reasons.  I 
want  you  and  all  belonging  to  you  out  o'  this !  You'll 
meet  'im,  likely  as  not ;  you  can  tell  'im  what  I  'ave  just 
said,  it  won't  make  no  difference.  We'll  meet,  'im  and 
me,  just  the  same — bound  to.  It  may  be  'ere  on  the 
Downs,  it  may  be  in  the  streets  of  London,  I  don't  know, 
214 


Gone 

but  we'll  meet ;  and  when  we  meet  I'll  kill  'im !  Tell  'im 
that  if  you  like !"  He  turned  away. 

"Jim !"  she  cried,  "this  is — is  horrible.  You — you  can't 
think — think  of  the  penalty!  They  will " 

"  'Ang  me !"  he  said.  "I  know,  I've  reckoned  all  that 
up.  I'm  willing  to  pay,  and  I'll  pay  all  right !" 

"Jim!"  she  cried.  "Jim,  come — come  back;  you  must, 
you  shall !  I  wish  to  speak  to  you !  Listen !" 

But  he  did  not  stay,  he  strode  to  the  door. 

"You'll  go  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "That's  all !  I  don't 
want  to  'ear  nothing  more  from  you.  We  shan't  meet 
again,  I  s'pose — I  'ope  not.  You'll  get  the  money — it'll 
keep  you  from  starving,  any'ow." 

"Listen!"  She  paused.  "You — you  shall!  Listen, 
j » 

But  he  was  gone.  She  ran  to  the  door  and  caught  at 
the  handle,  then  stood  still.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  the 

truth,  to  tell  him  that  'Nid  was But  why  should 

she?  A  great,  furious,  sullen  hatred  of  'Nid  and  him- 
self rose  in  her  breast.  Why  should  she  bring  happiness 
to  these  two  ?  No,  she  would  tell  him  nothing — nothing ! 
He  would  not  carry  out  his  threat,  he  would  not  dare ;  he 
would  be  afraid  of  the  penalty.  Men  did  not  take  life 
lightly,  they  had  their  own  necks  to  think  of.  He  was 
boasting,  bragging — he  would  not  do  it.  But  she  did  not 
know  the  man,  or  perhaps  she  did  and  was  trying  to 
stifle  her  knowledge  of  him.  But  he  was  gone  now;  it 
was  too  late ! 


215 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

HOW  BILLY  FOUND  HER 

JIM  was  out  on  the  Downs,  striding  through  the  star- 
light, his  face  turned  towards  the  little  cottage  far 
away  down  the  valley.  But  his  thoughts  were  with  her. 
He  was  recalling  that  night  when  she  had  thought  him 
sleeping,  when  she  had  crept  to  his  side  and  kissed  his 
bowed  head.  His  heart  ached  with  love  for  her,  need 
and  longing.  Only  he  knew  of  the  fight  that  he  had  put 
up  that  night,  the  fight  against  himself,  the  longing  to 
take  her  into  his  arms,  to  kiss  her  hair,  her  eyes,  her 
lips,  to  tell  her  that  the  past  was  past,  dead — that  it 
should  never,  never  rise  between  them  again. 

But  he  had  not,  and  now  in  his  heart  he  knew  that 
he  was  glad  he  had  not.  She  was  not  his,  had  never 
been  his,  would  never  be  now.  Love  her  he  might,  pro- 
tect her,  cherish  her,  but  she  could  never  be  to  him 
what  once  he  had  hoped  and  prayed  she  would  be — his 
other  self,  part  of  his  life,  his  wife,  companion,  friend, 
everything !  That  was  impossible  now ;  besides,  it  would 
not  be  for  long,  it  could  not,  for  he  would  have  his  work 
to  do  when  the  time  came.  It  was  not  revenge — he 
sought  no  revenge — it  was  simple  justice.  He  could  take 
this  man  tp  the  courts,  he  could  blacken  'Nid's  name 
for  ever,  he  could  obtain  damages  represented  by  pounds, 
shillings  and  pence ;  a  gentleman  might,  but  he  was  prim- 
itive man,  a  barbarian.  A  man  had  wronged  him,  more, 
216 


How  Billy  Found  Her 

had  wronged  'Nid,  and  that  man  must  pay  with  his  life. 
He  had  settled  it,  had  calmly  and  coolly  reasoned  it  all 
out  with  himself.  There  was  no  passion  behind  it,  only 
quiet  determination.  When  the  moment  came  he  would 
not  shrink ;  he  would  do  it  just  as  he  had  said  he  would 
do  it. 

So  in  the  dim  solitude  of  the  night  he  came  to  the 
dip  in  the  hills  and  found  himself  down  beside  the 
stream,  and  presently  he  came  to  the  cottage,  the  door  of 
which  stood  wide.  There  was  no  light  within,  no  sign 
of  human  habitation.  The  dark  cheerlessness  of  the 
place  struck  him;  he  called  for  Billy,  called  the  name 
again  and  again  and  there  was  no  answer.  He  went  up- 
stairs— the  two  little  rooms  were  empty. 

Then  he  came  back  to  the  little  kitchen  and  sat  down 
in  the  darkness  and  stretched  his  arms  out  on  the  table 
before  him  and  laid  his  head  on  them,  just  as  that 
night  when  she  had  come.  Hours  ago  he  had  been  tired 
and  hungry  with  all  a  healthy  man's  honest  hunger,  now 
he  was  neither.  He  had  forgotten  hunger,  forgotten  his 
weariness;  he  only  thought  of  her,  wondered  where  she 
was.  He  pictured  Billy  hunting  for  her,  brave  little 
heart  that  the  boy  was ! 

"God  bless  him!"  Jim  muttered.  "I  mustn't  forget 
Billy  before  I — before  I  get  finished  with  it  all.  I've 
got  to  remember  the  boy.  I  never  'ad  a  better  friend 
than  Billy!" 

He  rose  presently  and  went  to  the  door.  The  long 
night  was  slowly  passing;  he  could  see  a  pale  grey  light 
growing  in  the  sky,  a  wind  came  rustling  among  the 
trees,  it  rippled  the  surface  of  the  stream  that  sang 
at  his  feet.  It  brought  a  sense  of  chill  with  it ;  he  shud- 
dered, and  then  the  breeze  was  gone  and  the  calm  fell 

217 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

again.  And  so  the  morning  broke,  the  grey  grew  lighter. 
He  saw  the  trees  beside  the  stream  rising  out  of  a  bath 
of  mist;  gradually  the  mist  drifted  away,  a  pale  yellow 
streak  of  light  shot  across  the  sky,  and  then  the  birds, 
the  thrushes,  the  starlings  in  the  trees,  wakened  with 
the  new  day.  The  rooks  left  their  high  homes  and  went 
wheeling  overhead  against  the  pink  and  the  primrose  of 
the  sky.  The  sun  had  come  back  to  the  earth,  bringing 
life  and  light,  but  there  was  no  light  in  his  heart!  He 
looked  with  sombre  eyes  to  the  inevitable  end,  that 
meeting  that  he  knew  with  fatalistic  certainty  would  one 
day  surely  come. 

And  down  the  hill  came  a  little  black  figure,  a  figure 
that  stood  still  for  a  moment,  that  put  its  hands  to  its 
mouth  and  shouted. 

Faintly  Jim  Bevanwood  heard  the  shout  above  the 
tinkling  of  the  stream;  he  turned  slowly  and  saw  the 
black  speck  on  the  green  hillside.  It  was  Billy  coming 
back.  He  watched  the  boy  as  he  sped  nearer  and  nearer ; 
now  and  again  Billy  waved  his  arms,  yet  Jim  did  not 
know,  could  not  guess  why.  And  presently  Billy,  breath- 
less and  reeling  a  little  with  fatigue,  came. 

"Jim,"  he  'said  hoarsely,  "Jim,  I — I  found  'er.  I  said 
I  would,  mate — I  found  'er,  Jim!" 

"Found  'er  ?"  Jim  said  quietly,  so  quietly  that  he  won- 
dered at  himself. 

Billy  nodded,  he  was  spent  and  gasping  for  breath. 
He  lifted  a  ragged  arm  and  pointed  towards  the  rising 
sun.  "Out  there,  I  don't  know  'ow,  but  I  just  found  'er, 
just  as  it  was  getting  light.  Jim,  I'd  'unted  all  night,  I — 
I  didn't  mean  coming  back ;  she's  there,  down  by  the  chalk 
pit,  there  where  the  old  kiln  used  to  be.  She's  lying 
there!" 
218 


How  Billy  Found  Her 

'"Urt?"  Jim  whispered. 

Billy  shook  his  head.  "No,  Jim,  only  asleep,  and — 
and  I  didn't  waken  her;  I  just  left  'er  lying  there  and 
come  back  to  tell  you." 

Jim  put  his  arm  around  the  boy's  shoulder;  he  drew 
him  to  him  and  held  him  tightly  for  a  moment. 

"All  right,  Billy,"  he  said  quietly.  "All  right,  boy, 
I'll  go — go  and  bring  'er  'ome." 


219 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
"i  DIDN'T  KNOW" 

HE  found  her  just  where  Billy  had  told  him  he 
would.  She  was  lying  on  her  side,  her  right  arm 
thrust  out,  her  head  against  her  shoulder.  She  was 
sleeping  sweetly  and  calmly  as  a  child,  and  as  a  child  she 
looked,  so  small,  so  fragile,  such  a  "kid,"  he  thought,  as 
he  stood  looking  down  at  her ;  there  was  a  burning  in  his 
eyes,  a  throb  at  his  heart.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would 
be  so  easy  to  stoop,  to  pick  her  up  and  take  her  into  his 
arms  and  then — then  to  carry  her  away  to  the  far  ends  of 
the  earth.  It  did  not  matter  where  so  long  as  she  was 
with  him. 

He  was  tempted,  greatly  tempted  as  he  stood  there 
looking  down  at  her,  tempted  to  forgo  everything,  to 
make  life  afresh,  anew  for  her  and  for  himself,  to  wipe 
out  the  past,,  to  forgive.  He  had  long  ago  forgiven  her. 
It  was  the  other  he  could  not  forgive.  She  had  been  only 
an  innocent  child,  unconscious  of  evil,  a  little  wayward, 
a  little  self-willed,  yet  meaning  no  wrong. 

Standing  there  watching  her  as  she  lay  sleeping  at 
his  feet,  he  remembered  how  he  had  first  seen  herein  that 
grimy  London  street,  the  square,  squat,  ugly  yellow  brick 
background  of  the  laundry,  the  swarm  of  women  and 
girls,  tired  Mter  the  toil  of  the  day,  yet  noisy,  talking  and 
laughing  stridently.  And  then  she  had  come  among  them 
like  a  flower  in  the  wilderness.  So  he  had  seen  her  that 
220 


"I  Didn't  Know" 

first  time,  and  that  day  she  had  walked  straight  into  his 
heart;  from  that  moment  he  loved  her  and  needed  her, 
yet  never  as  he  loved  her  and  needed  her  now. 

His  lips  trembled,  there  was  a  burning  in  his  eyes ;  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  as  to  touch  her,  and  his  arm  fell 
heavily  to  his  side.  And  then  he  fell  on  to  his  knees 
beside  her  and  bent  over  her  and  watched  her  as  she 
slept.  The  light  breeze  lifted  her  hair  and  drew  it  across 
his  face — there  was  the  scent  of  the  sea  that  she  loved  in 
her  hair.  A  great  red  brown  curl  fell  against  her  white 
neck.  Fearfully  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  he  touched 
it,  lifted  it  and  put  his  lips  to  it. 

She  moved  slightly,  moaned  a  little  in  her  sleep,  and 
then  turned.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  stared  at  him. 

"I — I  didn't  know,"  she  said.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
know  what  she  was  saying.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with 
wonder;  they  took  in  the  blue  sky  with  its  fleecy  clouds, 
the  green  turf,  the  swell  of  the  downland,  the  clumps  of 
furze  yellow  with  flower.  And  then  they  wandered  back 
to  him. 

"I — I  didn't  know,"  she  said  again. 

"I  know  you  didn't,"  he  said  gently.  "Of  course  you 

didn't  know,  'Nid — 'Nid,  you  didn't  ought "  He 

paused.  "You  didn't  ought  to  come  out  here  and  go 
to  sleep,  you  might  catch  cold  or  something." 

He  had  command  of  himself  again.  He  was  talking 
to  her,  reproving  her  as  a  father  might  reprove  a  child. 

"Why— why  did  I  come  here?"  she  said.  "I  don't 
remember.  Oh!"  She  drew  a  long  breath,  a  fluttering 
sigh. 

"You  didn't  ought  to  have  gone  like  that,  'Nid;  it 
wasn't  fair,"  he  said. 

221 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"Yes,  it  was  fair  and  right;  it  was  me  coming  back 
that  was  wrong." 

"She  told  you  that?" 

Her  truthful  eyes  met  his.    "Yes,"  she  said. 

"She  lied,"  Jim  said  fiercely.  "That  woman  is  a  liar. 
Anyway,  she  was  wrong.  'Nid,  you  got  to  come  back. 
Billy's  waiting  for  you.  Billy's  been  'unting  all  night 
long  for  you,  and — and  breakfast'll  be  ready  by  now. 
Let  me  'elp  you."  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her;  for  a 
moment  it  seemed  that  she  would  take  it,  then  she  drew 
away  and  rose  unaided. 

"I — I  didn't  ought  to  come  back,  Jim,"  she  said.  "It 
'ud  be  best  for  me  to  go." 

"You  got  to  come  back,"  he  said,  "  'ome." 

"Home!"  She  laughed  a  little  tremulously,  uncertain- 
ly, and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  dared  not  look 
at  her,  he  knew  that  his  resolutions  would  waver;  he 
wanted  to  hold  out  his  arms  to  her,  to  take  her  back  not 
only  to  his  home,  but  into  his  heart.  No,  she  was  there 
already,  had  always  been. 

"Come,"  he  said ;  his  voice  was  rough  and  a  little  hard ; 
it  had  to  be  or  he  would  have  betrayed  himself. 

And  so  they  went  back  together  through  the  sunlight, 
over  the  Downs,  and  far  away  in  the  haze  lay  the  sea. 

"Jim,"  she  said  timidly,  "Jim." 

"Yes,  kid?" 

"Jim,  I — I  didn't  ought  to  have  come  back.  She  was 
right,  she  wasn't  lying.  You — you  can't  take  me  back 
again  now,  Jim." 

He  did  not  answer ;  he  strode  on  so  that  she  had  almost 
to  run  beside  him. 

"I  didn't  ought  to  have  come  back  again,"  she  said. 

222 


"I  Didn't  Know" 

"I've  been  wicked  to  you,  Jim."     Her  voice  trembled, 
there  were  tears  in  it. 

"I— I  know,"  he  said.  "I  know,  don't— don't  talk 
about  it.  Not  now,  one  day,  you — you,  'Nid — you've 
never  got  to — to  play  this  trick  on  me  again.  You  hear 
me?"  he  added  sharply.  "Never  again,  never  go  off  like 
that  no  more.  Where  was  you  thinking  of  getting  to, 
'Nid?" 

"I— I  don't  know,"  she  said.    "I  don't  know." 

"What  was  you  after,  then?    Where  was  you  going?" 

She  shook  her  head;  her  hair,  all  unbound,  fell  about 
her  shoulders ;  her  face  looked  very  small,  pale  and  oval ; 
she  held  her  hands  together  over  her  breast. 

"I — I  wanted  to  die,  Jim,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  started  and  looked  at  her.  "Why?"  he  said 
sharply. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I — I  just  wanted  to  die,  that's 
all.  I  didn't  want  to  go  on  living,  and — and  I  don't  know, 
Jim — but  it  isn't  easy  to  die  because  one  just  wants  it. 
I  thought  that  that  day  I  came  back.  I  didn't  think  you'd 
been  there,  you  and  Billy ;  I  thought  it  would  all  be  empty 
and  lonely.  I  meant  to  creep  in  there  and — and  wait, 
just  wait,  Jim.  And  then  I  saw  you  standing  there, 
and  you — you  smiled  at  me,  like  as  if  I'd  never  done 
wrong  and  wicked  things,  and  you  took  me  in,  Jim,  and 
then  I  wanted  to  go  on  living." 

"Yes,"  he  said  huskily.  "I  know,  I've  been  the  same. 
Now  I  know  I've  got  to  go  on  living  for  a  bit,"  he  added 
slowly. 

"Jim,  do  you  remember  that  time  when  I  told  you  I 
didn't  never  want  to  see  you  again  because  you  had  been 
fighting  and — and  your  face  was  all — 

"I  remember,"  he  said;  "don't  talk  about  that,  'Nid." 

223 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"I  didn't  know  then  you'd  been  fighting  for  me,  Jim," 
she  said. 

"No,  you  didn't  know,"  he  said.  "Look,  there's  the 
smoke  coming  from  the  chimbley.  Billy'll  be  getting  the 

breakfast;  he's  a  good  lad,  Billy.     When  I — I'm " 

He  paused.  "One  day  I'd  like  Billy  to  get  his  chance  in 
life.  I'd  like  'im  to  'ave  the  money  to  get  learning  and 
a  start.  There's  a  good  man  in  Billy." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"You  won't  forget  that,  'Nid,  will  you?"  he  said 
earnestly.  "There  isn't  much  I'm  bothering  about,  but  I 
been  thinking  of  Billy.  I  want  him  to  have  a  chance  in 
life ;  I  reckon  Billy'll  make  good.  You'll  remember  that, 
'Nid?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  to  remember  that?" 

"Because  I  want  it  done,"  he  said. 

"When — when?"  she  cried,  and  there  was  sudden 
terror  in  her  voice.  "Jim,  why  do  you  speak  like  that, 
telling  me  what  you  want  done  when — when  you  could  do 

it  yourself,  Jim?    You  don't  mean ?"    She  stretched 

out  her  hand  and  caught  his  arm.  He  wondered  at  the 
strength  of  the  grip  of  her  little  hand  and  looked  down 
into  the  wide,  staring  eyes. 

"Jim,  you — you  don't  mean  you're  going  to—to  die?" 
she  said. 

"Me?"  he  said.  "Me  die?"  He  laughed.  "No,  I 
reckon  I'll  live  just  about  as  long  as  I  want  to,  only — 
only  I'd  like  you  to  know  what  I  think  about  Billy.  See, 
there  he  is,  waving  to  us.  Come,  'Nid,  our  breakfast'll 
be  getting  cold." 

But  she  stood  still  suddenly. 

"Jim,  I — I  didn't  ought  to  go  back." 

"You've  got  to,"  he  said  roughly.    "You've  got  to." 
224 


"I  Didn't  Know" 

"Jim,  do — do  you  want  me  back?" 

Want  her  back,  want    her "  'Nid,    you — you're 

talking  foolish,  you've  got  to  come  back  and  stay  and 
never  go  wandering  off  again." 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly.     "Yes,  I'll  come  back." 

Twice  on  the  steep  hillside  she  stumbled  a  little,  and  he 
threw  out  his  hand  to  help  her,  but  she  drew  back.  It 
seemed  that  she  could  not  bear  him  to  touch  her,  and 
Jim  saw  it  and  wondered,  wondered  why,  for  he  did  not 
forget  that  night  when  she  had  stolen  down  the  narrow 
stairs  to  him  and  had  bent  over  him  and  kissed  him, 
thinking  him  asleep,  and  had  whispered  of  her  love  for 
him,  the  love  he  had  craved  for,  hungered  for  once  and 
that  had  now  come  too  late. 

"I  s'pose  I'll  never  understand  'er  quite,"  he  thought. 

Billy  to  his  other  good  qualities  added  that  of  tact. 

"Come  on,  you  two,"  he  said.  "Breakfast  is  getting 
cold ;  been  blackberrying  or  somethink  ?" 

He  looked  at  them  with  his  bright  eyes,  smiled,  and 
vanished  into  the  cottage. 

"I  'ated  'er  coming,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  was 
against  'er,  I  thought  she  didn't  want  me.  Now  I'd  'ate 
'er  going."  She  came  in  first  and  he  turned. 

"Billy,"  she  said.  The  boy  hesitated  for  a  moment; 
he  was  a  boy  with  all  a  natural  boyish  hatred  of  senti- 
ment and  emotion,  but  somehow  she  looked  so  small  and 
weak,  she  looked  sad. 

"  'Nid,"  he  said  quietly,  "don't  you  never  go  and  do 
that  again;  you  wouldn't  if — if  you  seen  'im  like  I  did 
when  he  read  that  letter  you  writ.  'Billy,  she's  gone/ 
he  said.  'Gone  for  good,  Billy.'  I  shan't  never  forget 
'earing  'im  say  that,  'Nid." 

"Billy,  di— did  he  care  ?"  she  whispered. 

225 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"It  broke  'im  all  up,"  Billy  said;  he  went  to  her. 
*'  'Nid,  'Nid,  don't  never  play  with  'im  again,  he's  too 
good  a  sort."  He  held  up  his  face  to  her,  the  fresh,  in- 
nocent face  of  boyhood,  and  she  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck  and  bent  her  head  till  it  touched  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Billy,  Billy!"  she  said.  "I  didn't  ought  to— to 
have  come,  but — oh!  I'm  glad  to  be  back,  glad  to  be 
back,  Billy." 


226 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
"i  TOLD  HIM  NOTHING" 

TT  seems,"  Sheila  Clare  said,  "that  you  have  made  a 
•*•  hopeless  tangle  of  everything.  You  let  her  escape 
you,  she  is  back  with  him;  he  came  to  me  raving  and 
bullying,  he  drove  me  out  of  the  house.  He  makes  me  a 
handsome  allowance."  She  laughed  derisively,  bitterly. 
"A  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  to  keep  me  from  starving, 
that's  what  I  get,  and  you — you  get  nothing,  you  fool." 

Her  brother  stood  staring  at  her,  his  face  was  gloomy. 

"How  should  I  know  that  she  would  slip  away  from 
me  like  that?"  he  said. 

"You  were  a  fool  to  trust  her.  You  frightened  her, 
I  suppose." 

"I — I  kissed  her,"  he  said,  "I  kissed  her  and  then — 
then  I  never  saw  her  again." 

Sheila  Qare  laughed.  "And  never  will,"  she  said;  "she 
has  gone  back  to  him,  to  Bevanwood.  They  are  living  in 
some  hole  of  a  half-ruined  cottage  in  a  dip  of  the  Downs, 
quite  Arcadian." 

"And  he  knows  that  she — that  I "  Geoffrey  Clare 

paused.  "He  must  know  or  he  wouldn't  take  her  back." 

"He  knows  nothing.  She  came  back  days  after.  How 
was  he  to  know?  I  suppose  he  didn't  question  her,  she 
offered  no  information.  He  spoke  of  you." 

"Yes?"  the  other  said  eagerly. 

"He  is  waiting  for  you ;  he  says  that  one  day  he  will 

227 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

kill  you."  Her  voice  shook  with  sudden  fear.  "And 
he  will  meet  you  one  day ;  when  that  day  comes  he  means 
to  kill  you,  and  he  will  do  it.  I  know  that  man,  I  say 
he  will  do  it.  If  you  had  heard  him  as  I  did  you  would 
understand.  He  said  it  coldly,  dispassionately;  it  was 
no  boast,  no  wild  threat,  it  was  just  a  quiet  promise  that 
he  had  made  to  himself.  'I  shall  meet  him  one  day,  and 
then  I  shall  kill  him.'  He  said  it  like  that  and  he  meant 
it." 

"But  you "  the  man  cried,  "you — you  told  him  that 

she  was  as  pure  and  innocent  as  when " 

"I  told  him  nothing,  I  hated  him  too  much.  I  didn't 
want  to  give  him  tidings  of  comfort  and  joy." 

"You  were  willing  to  sacrifice  me,  then?"  he  said. 

"Afterwards  I  was  sorry,  I  meant  to  call  him  back. 
I  did  call,  but  it  was  too  late,  he  had  gone." 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  he  believes — and — and  is 
waiting  for  me  to  revenge  himself  for  a  wrong  that  never 
was " 

"Yes,  I've  told  you,  I've  warned  you;  you'll  do  better 
to  leave  the  country.  I  tell  you  the  man  is  dangerous, 
that  sort  of  man  is.  He  has  promised  himself  a  certain 
thing,  and  he  will  keep  that  promise.  He  won't  count 
the  penalty,  he  will  just  do  it,  so — so  you  must  go !" 

"I'm  not  quite  a  coward,"  Geoffrey  Clare  said.  "I'm 
pretty  low  in  some  things."  He  paused.  "But  I'm  still 
a  bit  of  a  man,"  he  laughed.  "So  he  is  going  to  kill  me 
for  a  fancied  wrong,  and  you  might  have  set  everything 
right  and  shielded  me  from  danger  and  did  not.  I  am 
grateful  to  you ;  you  played  a  sisterly,  a  womanly  part !" 
He  laughed  sharply.  "Since  you  did  not  tell  him  the 
truth,  I  shall!" 
228 


"I  Told  Him  Nothing" 

"You — you  will  not  go!"  she  cried.  "You  must  not, 
you  don't  understand!" 

"I  shall  go  and  tell  him ;  after  that "    He  shrugged 

his  shoulders.  "I  am  a  man,  I  can  take  care  of  myself ; 
a  man  who  doesn't  arm  himself  before  he  steps  into  the 
lion's  den  is  a  fool!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  cried. 

"It  does  not  matter  to  you.  I  am  going  to  do  some- 
thing that  you  could  have  saved  me  doing!" 

"Geoffrey!"  she  called  to  him,  "Geoff!" 

He  was  at  the  door,  but  he  did  not  wait. 

"Wait !"  she  said,  "wait,  I  will " 

"There  is  nothing  else  that  I  have  to  say  to  you,"  he 
said.  "I  have  to  thank  you  for  nothing.  I  behaved  like 

a  brute,  and  you  encouraged  me  to  do  it;  you "    He 

hesitated.  "You  put  it  into  my  head,  I  think.  How- 
ever, I  shall  fight  my  own  battles !" 

"Geoffrey!"  she  called,  but  he  was  gone.  He  went 
down  the  hotel  stairs  into  the  London  street. 

So  'Nid  had  gone  back,  and  Bevanwood  had  accepted 
her,  and  Bevanwood  was  waiting  for  him  to  kill  him. 
He  was  not  afraid;  with  all  his  many  faults  he  had  not 
boasted  when  he  said  that  he  was  not  a  coward. 

He  stood  on  the  pavement  for  a  minute  considering, 
then  he  hailed  a  cab.  He  drove  to  the  house  of  a  man 
he  knew  and  went  in;  his  friend  was  taking  his  break- 
fast. 

"I've  come  to  ask  a  favour,  I  hope  you  will  grant  it 
without  asking  questions  that  I  can't  answer.  It  is  sim- 
ply this — you  own  a  revolver,  I  want  you  to  lend  it  to 
me." 

"Going  to  commit  murder?"  the  other  asked  with  a 
smile. 

229 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

"I  hope  not — going  to  prevent  one,  I  hope.    Will  you 

lend  it?" 

"Of  course!"  the  other  man  said.    "I'll  get  it." 

An  hour  later  Geoffrey  Clare  stood  on  the  platform 

at  Charing  Cross,  a  ticket  for  Horswood,  the  nearest 

station  to  Bevanwood,  in  his  pocket. 


230 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  LONELY   ROAD 

JIM'S  occupation  of  the  little  cottage  had  made  a  vast 
change  in  its  appearance.  The  renovation  of  the  cot- 
tage had  been  his  delight.  He  was  a  man  who  had  to  be 
doing  something;  what  was  more  natural  than  that  he 
should  do  the  work  that  he  particularly  understood  ?  The 
broken  but  mended  door  had  disappeared,  in  its  place 
was  a  smart,  newly  painted  green  door — the  same  with 
the  broken  window  sashes  and  all  the  rest  of  the  wood- 
work. He  had  built  a  pretty  little  porch  over  the  door- 
way; he  had  trimmed  and  cleared  away  the  tangle  of 
creepers.  Billy  had  assisted  him  with  the  garden  that 
had  been  a  wilderness.  Flower  beds  had  been  dug  and 
planted ;  flowers  bloomed  where  there  had  been  only  tall, 
rank  grass.  The  little  path  had  been  trimmed  and  rolled. 
Jim  had  lavished  much  bright  green  paint,  fetched  by 
Billy  from  Horswood,  on  the  woodwork.  It  was  a  very 
attractive,  pretty  and  smart  little  place  now,  this  derelict 
old  wreck,  a  place  for  a  man  to  be  proud  and  fond  of, 
if  he  had  rescued  it — as  Jim  had  done — with  his  own 
unaided  hands  from  decay  and  rot. 

In  the  quaint  little  porch  that  Jim  had  laboriously  de- 
signed and  carried  out,  he  had  built  a  seat,  and  on  the 
seat  'Nid  was  sitting  this  warm,  drowsy  afternoon,  sew- 
ing industriously. 

Now  and  again  she  looked  up,  a  sad  little  smile  in  her 

231 


eyes  and  on  her  lips.  She  watched  Jim  working  out  there 
in  the  hot  sunshine.  He  was  bringing  large,  smooth, 
round  pebbles  from  the  bed  of  the  stream  with  which  to 
complete  the  little  pathway. 

Now  he  had  finished,  the  path  was  complete,  a  cobbled 
pathway  of  large,  smooth  pebbles.  It  looked  well,  it  had 
been  neatly  and  truly  laid.  Jim  straightened  his  back 
and  looked  about  him,  a  pleased  smile  on  his  face.  He 
was  proud  of  his  work  here,  proud  of  his  path. 

"The  bridge  next !"  he  muttered. 

The  bridge  over  the  stream  consisted  only  of  a  plank, 
and  that  somewhat  sodden  and  rotten.  Jim  saw  the  plank 
removed,  in  its  place  a  neat  little  ornamental  bridge  with 
a  gate  to  it — it  would  give  the  finishing  touch  to  his  little 
domain.  He  called  to  'Nid  softly,  and  instantly  she 
dropped  her  work  and  hurried  to  him. 

"Don't  look  so  bad,  'Nid,  does  it  ?"  he  said. 

"It  looks  lovely!"  she  said,  admiring  the  pathway. 

"The  next  thing9!!  be  the  bridge,"  he  said.  He  was 
intent  on  his  plans ;  he  described  the  bridge  at  length. 

"We'll  have  a  little  white  gate  one  end,"  he  said.  "Six 
supports'll  be  enough — come  to  that,  the  bridge  is  more 
for  looks  than  anything  else.  Any  one  could  'op  acrost 
the  stream;  why,  even  you  could,  'Nid,  with  your  little 
feet!" 

"Yes !"  she  said.  She  looked  down  at  her  feet — they 
were  certainly  very  small. 

"But  it's  the  finishing  touch,"  he  said.  "That's  what's 
wanted,  and  after  that  I  think  I  did  ought  to  put  up  a 
bit  of  a  fence  at  the  side  there,  and  then  I'll  get  some  of 
that  there  tartgle  cleared  at  the  back,  and  me  and  Billy'll 
turn  the  land  up  and  plant  it  out." 

"It — it'll  be  getting  late  for — for  planting  out,  won't  it, 
232 


The  Lonely  Road 


Jim?"  she  said,  and  her  voice  faltered.  "It's  scarcely 
summer  now !" 

The  summer  was  waning,  autumn  was  creeping  down 
on  them,  after  the  autumn  would  come  winter — winter! 
she  shivered  at  the  thought.  Where  would  they  all  be 
when  the  winter  came?  He  must  go  back,  they  would 
need  him;  he  had  his  estate,  his  place  in  the  world  to 
fill,  the  place  which  she  could  never  share  with  him 
now. 

The  winter — how  she  dreaded  and  feared  it !  She  felt 
like  a  butterfly  whose  life  ended  with  the  summer-time. 
After  the  summer  what  would  life  hold  for  her? 
Nothing!  For  he  must  go,  and  without  him — how 
empty,  how  desolate  it  would  be ! 

"  'Nid,  you — you  ain't "  He  paused.  "  'Nid,  you 

ain't  crying?"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  said.    "No,  I  ain't,  Jim." 

"I  thought  you  was,"  he  said. 

When  the  summer  should  be  gone — what  then?  God 
help  her!  She  did  not  want  to  live,  to  live  to  see  the 
winter.  Like  the  butterfly  that  lived  only  in  the  sun- 
shine, she  wanted  to  die  when  she  could  no  longer  be  in 
the  sunshine  of  his  presence. 

"Jim." 

He  turned  to  her.     "Yes,  'Nid?"  he  said. 

"Jim,  it— it  'ud  be  best "  she  said.  "It  'ud  be  best 

for  me  to  go — go  now.  I — I  can't  live  on  like  this, 
knowing  that  each  day  brings  the  time  nearer  and 
nearer." 

He  did  not  speak,  he  stood  staring  at  the  big  round 
cobbles  that  he  had  dredged  from  the  stream. 

"The  time's  coming;  every  day,  every  hour  brings  it 
nearer.  Jim,  you'll  have  to  go  back,  they  want  you. 

233 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Billy'll  have  to  go  back,  his    mother'll    want   him,    and 
then "  her  voice  died  away.    "Then " 

"  'Nid,  can't  you  be  like  me,  just — just  living  on  each 
day  and  not  thinking  about  to-morrow?" 

"But  to-morrow  comes,  it  must  come,  and  to-morrow 
will  be  black  and  cold  and  empty,  Jim." 

"Black  and  cold  and  empty,"  he  said.    "Yes." 

"Jim,  Jim,  you  must  go  back;  they  want  you,  you've 
got  to  go  back  soon — soon,  and  I — I  can't  come  with  you, 
Jim." 

"No,"  he  said.    "You  can't  come  with  me,  'Nid." 

She  knew  it,  she  had  always  known  it,  yet  to  hear  him 
say  so  now — it  sounded  like  the  knell  of  doom  to  her. 
She  was  shut  out  for  ever  from  his  life;  in  his  life  she 
could  play  no  part,  she  had  forfeited  her  place  by  his 
side,  the  place  she  had  cared  nothing  for  once.  And 
now — oh,  the  difference !  Oh,  the  need  for  him !  What 
of  those  coming  days  when  she  should  not  hear  his  voice, 
when  she  could  no  longer  see  his  face? 

"So,  Jim,  wouldn't  it  be  better  if  I  was  to  go?"  she 
whispered. 

"Go  where?"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  don't  know;  it  don't  much  matter,  Jim,  does  it? 
Just  go." 

"Not  yet,"  he  said  quietly.  "Not  yet,  'Nid ;  one  day — 
soon  perhaps — me  and  you'll  talk  it  over,  dear,  and — and 
settle  things,  and  you  won't  forget  about  Billy,  'Nid,  will 
you,  when "  He  paused. 

"I  shan't  be  able  to  do  anything  about  Billy,"  she  said. 
"Jim,  you  must  do  that,  do  it  yourself." 

"Why?"  he  asked.    "You  promised,  'Nid." 

"Did  I?"  she  said  drearily.     "I  didn't  ought  to  have 
promised,  Jim,  I  can't  promise  nothing  now — nothing. 
234 


The  Lonely  Road 

You  see,  I  don't  know  where  I  shall  be  or  what's  going 
to  happen,  Jim ;  one  can't  promise  much  when  one  don't 
know,  can  one?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"We  ain't  been  un'appy  together  'ere,  'Nid,  you  and 
me  and  Billy " 

"Unhappy,"  she  said,  "unhappy?" 

"It  ain't  a  bad  little  place,  one  gets  to  be  fond  of  a 
place  like  this;  it — it's  like  'ome,  ain't  it,  'Nid?  More 
like  'ome  than  that  big  pi?  °  yonder."  He  made  a  sweep 
with  his  arm  in  the  direct,  n  of  Bevanwood. 

"That  wasn't  ever  home,"  she  said.  "The  other  might 
have  been — Pent  Street,  I  mean.  Only — only  I  wouldn't 
let  it  be;  it  was  my  fault,  Jim,  that  ought  to  have  been 
home  for  us  both,  but  it  wasn't;  it  was  me,  dear,  not  you. 
I  spoiled  it." 

"You  didn't,"  he  said.  "You  never  spoiled  anything 
for  me,  never,  except "  He  paused. 

'Nid  turned  her  face  away. 

"I — I  did  ought  to  go,  Jim,"  she  whispered.  "I  must. 
Oh,  Jim,  you — you  never  forget  it,  never,  never,  not  for 
one  moment.  You  speak  kindly  to  me  and  smile  at  me, 
and — and  all  the  time — all  the  time  I  know  you  re- 
member." 

"I— I  can't  'elp  it,  'Nid,"  he  said.  "I  can't  'elp  it.  I 
try  not  to — to  remember,  but  I  do,  I  do.  I  can't  'elp 
it.  It  isn't  you,  it  isn't  you,  dear,  I  ain't  bitter  about  you 
now;  I  never  was.  One  day,  perhaps,  you'll  understand 
that,  'Nid,  I  was  never,  never  bitter  about  you,  it  was 

only — 'im "  He  paused.  "I  wanted  to  do  the  best 

for  you,  'Nid.  Always  I  knew  it  wasn't  you,  not  your 
fault,  you  was  such  a  baby,  'Nid,  such  a  kid.  You're  only 
a  baby  now,  'Nid,  you  ain't  fit  to  look  after  yourself,  you 

235 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

ain't  fit  to  go  alone.  Remember  the  last  time  when  I 
found  you  asleep  out  there  on  the  hills,  you  'adn't  gone 
far  after  all,  'Nid." 

"No,"  she  said.  "But  the  parting's  coming,  Jim,  the 
parting's  coming;  it's  near  the  end  of  August  now,  Sep- 
tember's coming,  and  then  October,  and  then  winter'll 
begin,  and  Billy'll  have  to  go  back,  and  you'll  have  to  go 
back,  and — and  me,  I — oh,  Jim,  I  daren't — daren't  look 
forward  to  it,  it  makes  me  cold.  I  daren't  think  what'll 
come  to  us  all  when  the  summer  days  have  passed  and 
gone.  It'll  be  so  different  then." 

He  moved  towards  her,  he  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  "  'Nid,  I  been  thinking  for  you  all  the  time, 
it's  for  you,  gel.  I'll  arrange  something,  don't — don't 
worry." 

"How  can  I  help  it?    How  can  I  help  worrying?" 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "It's  'ard  and  rough,  'ard  on  us 
both,  'Nid,  but  we  can't  'elp  it  now.  We  can't  alter  any- 
thing that's  been,  nor  what's  coming,"  he  added.  "Don't 
cry,  gel,  don't  cry;  I'm  going  up  to  the  mill,  when  I  come 
back  there'll  be  a  smiling  face,  won't  there?" 

"Yes,  Jim,"  she  said  softly.  "There'll  always  be  a 
smiling  face  for  you  when  you  come." 

"That's  right,  gel,"  he  said.  He  looked  down  at  her, 
his  plain  face  looked  less  plain  than  usual  now,  there  was 
a  great  love  and  tenderness  in  his  eyes,  a  great,  great 
longing  that  would  never  be  appeased. 

"She  ain't  mine,  she  was  never  mine.  She  can  never 
be  mine.  Just  standing  up  before  that  there  clergyman 
never  made  *er  really  mine,"  he  thought.  "So  long  as  'e 
lives  she  belongs  to  'im  and  'e  to  'er.  When  'e's  gone 
she'll  be  free — free,  free  of  'im  and  of  me,  too,  then. 
She's  young  yet,  only  a  kid,  and  maybe  in  time  she'll 
236 


The  Lonely  Road 

forget.  Maybe  some  one  else'll  come  along.  She's  only 
a  kid  yet,  some  one  else  may  'elp  'er  to  forget  when  she's 
free  of  'im,  and  that — that  means  being  free  of  me,  too, 
free  of  us  both." 

He  looked  back  when  he  had  stepped  across  the 
stream,  he  saw  her  there  standing  in  the  porch  watching 
him.  He  waved  his  hand  to  her,  but  she  did  not  wave 
back,  for  she  could  only  see  him  indistinctly  through  the 
most  of  her  tears. 

Go — yes,  she  knew;  where  she  would  go  she  knew 
when  the  time  came  for  parting.  There  was  but  one  road 
for  her  to  take.  She  shivered  a  little  for  she  was  young 
and  afraid,  afraid  of  the  darkness  and  the  loneliness  of 
that  road  by  which  she  must  travel  alone,  as  all  must. 

He  was  gone  now;  she  saw  him  far,  far  away  in  the 
distance,  breasting  the  green  swell  of  the  hills.  She 
stretched  out  her  empty  arms  to  him;  her  eyes  watched 
him  till  the  distance  swallowed  him  and  still  her  arms 
were  held  out.  A  smiling  face  when  he  came  back — 
yes,  that  was  the  least  she  could  do.  But  she  knew  that 
when  the  summer  days  were  gone,  when  he  and  Billy 
must  go  back,  she  knew  the  road  that  lay  before  her,  the 
road  that  she  must  take  alone. 


237 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
"FATE!" 

SO  he  breasted  the  hills  and  strode  away  through  the 
afternoon  sunshine  towards  the  mill  in  the  misty  dis- 
tance. The  gorse  flowers  were  in  bloom,  the  turf  was 
soft  and  springing  under  foot,  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  hum  of  busy  insects,  and  in  the  far  distance  a  figure 
was  coming  towards  him,  the  figure  of  a  man,  but  Jim 
Bevanwood  did  not  see  it. 

The  summer  days  were  ending.  Life  at  their  little  cot- 
tage in  the  hollow  was  ending  for  them,  too,  and 

then One  way  for  him,  another  for  'Nid.  His  way 

he  knew — hers  was  all  indistinct,  uncertain  to  him.  He 
looked  up  and  paused — a  smile  came  into  his  face,  for 
he  knew  suddenly  that  the  thing  that  he  had  always 
known  must  happen  had  happened  now.  So  he  would 
play  his  part';  the  parting  of  the  ways  had  come  sooner 
than  he  had  thought,  sooner  than  he  had  looked  for.  It 
had  come  while  the  summer-time  was  still  with  them. 

The  man  was  coming  towards  him,  had  seen  him  and 
was  hastening  to  him.  So  they  would  meet  at  last  out 
here  on  these  green  hills,  man  to  man,  armed  with 
the  weapons  that  nature  had  given  to  them ;  so  here  they 
would  meet^and  fight  their  last  fight  and  it  would  end  in 
freedom  for  'Nid. 

Jim  knew  how  the  battle  must  end,  knew  himself  for 
infinitely  the  stronger  man.  And  when  it  was  ended  he 
238 


"Fate!" 

would  go  back  no  more  to  the  cottage — he  would  go  on 
and  on  to  some  town  where  he  would  give  himself  up, 
where  he  would  admit  all  and  wait  the  result,  the  in- 
evitable result. 

He  had  known  the  man  in  the  far  distance,  knew  in- 
stinctively that  he  could  make  no  mistake.  The  man  had 
stopped  now. 

"Bevanwood,"   he  cried,   "Bevanwood,  I   have  come 

"I  know,"  Jim  said,  "I  know.  I  knew  sooner  or  later 
you'd  come;  I  been  waiting  for  you."  He  kept  on  his 
advance. 

"Keep  back,"  the  man  said ;  "I  want  to  speak  to  you ; 
stand  where  you  are." 

But  Jim  took  no  notice;  he  flung  off  his  coat,  ragged 
and  disreputable  old  coat  that  it  was,  and  still  he  ad- 
vanced. There  was  something  in  his  voice,  something 
terrible  in  its  quiet,  passionless  expression. 

"Bevanwood,  I  tell  you  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

Listen — stand  where  you  are,  stand  still  or  by "  The 

voice  cracked  with  a  note  of  sudden  terror,  for  this  man 
advancing  on  him  looked  like  Fate  itself.  He  never 
paused,  never  hesitated,  and  then  suddenly  the  other 
knew  fear,  frantic  fear. 

"Keep  back,  keep  back!  Listen,  for  God's  sake, 
listen !"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "I  tell  you 

"It's  me  and  you  met  at  last.  I  been  waiting  for  you. 
I  got  to  do  what  I  promised  myself.  It  'ad  to  come;  it 
was  Fate  itself — Fate  as  brought  you  'ere  to-day.  You 
and  me  meeting  on  these  'ills "  His  hands  were  out- 
stretched, his  face  expressionless,  only  his  eyes  glittered. 

"Keep  back,  man,  keep  back,  in  God's  name,  keep  back ! 
Listen,  you  must  listen — Bevanwood,  for  God's  sake, 

239 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

listen,  give  me — one  moment — do  you  hear — one."  And 
then  fear,  a  mad,  wild,  unreasoning  fear  came  to  him. 
He  saw  those  great,  powerful  hands  stretched  out  to 
grasp  him,  he  saw  in  those  hands  and  in  this  man's  eyes 
death,  and  he  knew  why — because  she  had  not  told  this 
man  the  truth;  and  now  the  man  would  not  listen.  He 
was  mad — mad.  He  knew  that  once  he  was  in  that  grip 
it  would  mean  the  end  for  him ;  but  he  would  not  die  be- 
cause of  this  man's  folly — because  this  fool  would  not 
listen.  He  had  something  yet  that  would  save  him,  and 
so  he  sprang  aside  and  the  other  man  turned  after  him, 
laughing  hoarsely  as  though  in  derision  of  his  effort  to 
escape. 

And  then  as  he  leaped  Clare  stumbled  and  fell  to  his 
knees  and  saw  the  other  man  towering  above  him,  saw 
inevitable  death,  and  in  his  terror  he  pressed  the  trigger 
again  and  again,  and  yet  again,  scarcely  knowing  what 
he  was  doing,  only  realising  that,  come  what  might,  he 
himself  must  still  live. 

And  then  he  saw  the  other  man  stand  suddenly,  saw 
him  sway,  saw  a  puzzled  look  come  into  his  face,  grown 
suddenly  ghastly,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  there,  rock- 
ing strangely  backwards  and  forwards,  to  fall  at  last 
heavily,  face  downward,  with  arms  flung  out  upon  the 
turf. 

Dazed  with  the  horror  of  it  all,  Clare  knelt  there,  star- 
ing at  the  great  bulk  of  the  man  lying  so  motionless. 
Had  he  done  this?  What  would  others  say?  Say  that 
it  was  murder?  Murder — God  knew,  God  knew  that  it 
was  not;  ir^was  self-protection.  He  had  not  wished  to 
fire ;  he  had'  been  driven  to  it  in  self-defence.  Self-de- 
fence— who  would  believe  that?  Had  he  not  brought 
the  pistol  with  him? 
240 


"Fate!" 

Thoughts,  fears  seemed  to  tumble  through  his  brain. 
He  stood  up  hesitating  and  undecided.  The  terror  of 
immediate  death  at  this  man's  hands  had  given  place  to 
a  frantic  fear  of  consequences,  the  fear  of  a  death  in- 
finitely more  shameful,  a  death  that  it  was  utterly  im- 
possible for  him  to  escape.  Had  not  the  people  in  the 
village  seen  him  come  this  way  to-day?  Had  there  not 
been  a  dozen  who  had  recognised  him?  Some  even  had 
wished  him  good-day  and  had  called  him  by  his  name. 
He  thought  of  all  this,  of  the  net  that  was  closing  about 
him. 

And  then  the  mists  of  terror  cleared ;  for  the  moment 
all  that  was  generous  in  him  came  uppermost.  He  put 
self  aside,  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  body  and,  heavy 
as  it  was,  he  raised  it  in  his  arms  and  held  Bevanwood's 
head  against  his  breast. 

"Bevanwood,  Bevanwood,  can  you  hear — can  you  hear 
me  now?  Can  you  understand?  Try — try  and  answer, 
try  and  tell  me  that  you  hear,  Bevanwood 

For  James  Bevanwood's  eyes  were  wide  and  staring 
eyes  that  held  no  intelligence,  but  the  sound  of  that  fran- 
tic voice  seemed  to  rouse  him,  to  pierce  the  mists;  the 
eyes  wandered  over  the  green  hills,  towards  that  shim- 
mering belt  of  gold  that  was  the  sea,  then  came  back 
slowly  until  they  rested  on  the  face  of  the  man  who  held 
him. 

"Bevanwood,  can  you  hear  me?  Can  you  understand 
me?  I  came  to  find  you,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  but  you 
would  not  listen."  There  was  a  wail  of  despair  in  the 
voice.  "But  you  would  not  listen.  Oh,  man,  man,  you 
gave  me  no  chance,  no  time.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  how  she  fled  from  me — Bevanwood — can  you 
hear  ?  Try — try  and  answer  me — for  I  came  to  tell  you 

241 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

and  I  must  tell  you,  though  God  knows  it  means  little 
enough  to  me  now,  and  perhaps  but  little  to  you,  Bevan- 
wood. Can  you  hear  me?" 

Bevanwood's  eyes  stared  up  into  the  man's  face,  yet  he 
made  no  answer,  gave  no  sign. 

"Before  God  and  as  God  above  hears  me,  she  is  pure — 
pure  and  innocent,  as  innocent  as  on  that  day  when  I 
first  saw  her.  I  loved  her,  I  thought  my  love  had  tri- 
umphed, and  in  my  triumph  I  forgot— caution — I  kissed 
her  madly,  I  know  it  now;  then  I  saw  sudden  fear, 
hatred,  repulsion  in  her  face.  I  saw  her  horror  of  me, 
and  then  I  understood  that  I  had  failed — failed.  Do  you 
hear  me,  Bevanwood  ?  Can  you  understand  ?  I  saw  her 
horror  of  me — horror  and  shame — for  then,  I  believe  that 
for  the  first  time  she  understood.  I  laughed  at  it  then,  I 
thought  it  would  pass.  Bevanwood,  you  hear  me  ?  You 
do  hear  me,  man?" 

"I  'ear,"  Bevanwood  whispered. 

"And  you  believe,  you  must,  for  you  must  know  that 
I  have  nothing  to  gain.  I  don't  even  know  now  why  I 
should  tell  you  this,  yet  I  came  to  tell  you — the  truth. 
My  sister  could  have  told  you.  I  tell  you  that  on  that 
first  day  'Nid  left  me,  fled  from  me;  I  have  never  seen 
her  since.  She  went  as  she  came,  an  innocent  child, 
Bevanwood.  I  have  nothing  to  gain  now  by  lying.  I 
am  not  lying.  God  above  knows  that  I  am  telling  you  the 
truth.  You  hear  me,  man,  you  hear  me  ?" 

The  labouring  chest  rose  and  fell  convulsively,  a  thin 
stream  of  blood  trickled  slowly  from  the  breast,  it 
dropped  sluggishly  to  the  ground  and  soaked  into  the 
green  turf,  making  a  great  black  and  ever-growing  patch. 
He  heard,  but  he  could  not  answer ;  the  eye-lids  flickered, 
a  slow  smile  came  into  his  face. 
242 


"Fate!" 

"Heaven  knows  I  did  not  mean  it,"  Clare  moaned. 
"I  didn't  mean  it,  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing;  you 
— you  wouldn't  listen,  you  were  coming  on  me,  you 
wouldn't  stop.  If  you  had  stopped,  only  for  a  moment, 
only  a  moment  so — so  that  I  could  make  you  understand ; 
I  tell  you  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing;  I  saw  death 
and  I  was  afraid  for  the  moment.  I — I  knew  that  I 
might  still  live,  so " 

"She — she  is "  Jim  Bevanwood  whispered.  "She 

is— is " 

"Innocent,  pure,  chaste,"  the  other  said.  "I  swear  it. 
She  fled  from  me  in  horror ;  there  was  no  wrong  to  you 
or  to  her,  none,  as  God  hears  me." 

Into  the  white  face  there  came  a  slow  smile. 

"I — I  did  ought  to  have  listened,"  he  whispered.  "Only 
I  didn't  think.  I — I  never  thought  it — it  might  be  dif- 
ferent. It  was  my  fault,  not  yours.  You've  got  to 
'urry,  'urry.  I've  got  to  shelter  you — there's  time  yet. 
Put  it  down  'ere  into  my  'and,  that  thing,  the  thing  you 
shot  me  with,  into  my  'and,  then  go — go  and  bring  'em 
quickly.  I'm  going  to  clear  you ;  my — my  own  fault,  I 
done  it  myself,  you  understand?  Done  it  myself,  re- 
member that.  Only  'urry,  'urry  while  there's  time  and 
tell  'er — after — tell  'er  you  told  me  and  I  understood  the 
truth— tell  'er  it's  all  right.  Tell  'Nid— you  will?" 

Geoffrey  Clare  left  him  lying  there  on  tlje  hillside,  the 
revolver  gripped  in  his  hand,  and  he  ran — ran  like  a 
hunted  man,  ran  to  the  village  white-faced  and  shaking 
with  horror. 

"There's  been  an  accident.  Sir  James  Bevanwood  is 
dying — shot — shot  himself ;  he's  living  yet — hurry,  hurry 
to  him,  hurry!" 

The  police  and  the  village  doctor  drove  out  over  the 

243 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

Downs  to  the  place  in  the  police  car  and  Clare  went  with 
them. 

Jim  Bevanwood's  eyes  were  opened;  he  was  still  con- 
scious. 

"I'm  glad  you  come,"  he  whispered.  "I  wanted  to 
say  I — I  done  it  myself ;  it  was  an  accident.  I  was  look- 
ing at  it;  I  didn't  understand  much  about  them  things, 
I  didn't  know  it  was  loaded.  You  understand,  you  'ear? 
'E  ain't  to  blame.  It  was  my  own  fault.  I  tell  you  I 
done  it  myself.  I  didn't  know.  It's  true,  it's  truth." 
He  paused  "Will  you  tell  'er,  tell  my  wife — tell  'er— I 
loved "  He  paused. 

Beyond  the  yellow  blaze  of  the  gorse  flowers  he  could 
see  the  horizon  of  the  sea,  he  could  see  the  glint  of  a  tiny 
white  sail  in  the  sunlight.  How  she  had  loved  the  sea. 
He  remembered  the  rapt  look  in  her  eyes  that  first  time 
she  had  seen  it;  the  sea  and  'Nid  were  somehow  always 
inseparable  in  his  mind.  He  was  glad  to  lay  here  watch- 
ing the  sea.  It  was  almost  'Nid  herself;  and  then  the 
gorse  flowers  faded  and  the  sunlight  was  gone  and  the 
blackness  stole  down  on  him. 

"It  was  my  fault — no  one's  fault,  only  mine,"  he  said. 


244 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  FINISHING  OF  THE  BRIDGE 

D  stared  open-eyed;  in  her  eyes  was  astonish- 
ment  and  a  little  fear.  She  shrank  back  at 
the  sight  of  the  man.  She  put  her  hands  against  her 
breast.  Why  had  he  come  ?  She  had  hoped  and  thought 
never  to  see  him  again. 

"  'Nid,"  he  said.  "  'Nid,  he— he  wants  you;  he's  hurt, 
'Nid ;  it — it  was  an  accident." 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  asked  quietly.  "What 
have  you  done?"  She  spoke  calmly,  even  though  her 
heart  was  throbbing  with  fear. 

"Nothing,  I  tell  you ;  it  was  an  accident ;  they  have  car- 
ried him  home  to  his  house.  He  wants  you — you  are  to 
follow.  I  have  come  for  you." 

"I— I  can't,"  she  said.  "I  can't  go  there;  he— he  don't 
want  that." 

"But  he  does — he  sent  me.  He  wants  you  and  there  is 
no  time  to  lose;  you  must  come  at  once." 

Billy  had  come  upon  them  both. 

"Is  'e  'urt,  is  Jim  'urt?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Clare  said,  "badly  hurt— it  was  an  accident.  I 
tried  to  tell  him — but  he  would  not  listen;  then  it  hap- 
pened. 'Nid,  will  you  come  ?" 

"I  can't  go  there,  not  to  his  house,"  she  said.  "I  can't, 
you — you  know  I  can't,  you  know  I  can't." 

He  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  "I  know  of  no  reason 

245 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

why  you  should  not.  Besides,  he  wishes  it,  and  there's 
no  time  to  lose." 

"You  best  go,"  Billy  said  in  a  low,  shocked  voice. 
"You  know  what  Jim  is — 'e  likes  'is  own  way;  if  'e  says 
you're  to  go,  you'd  best  go." 

"But "  'Nid  said. 

"We  are  losing  time,"  Clare  said.  "You  must — must 
come.  Don't  you  understand?  He  is  dying." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  understood  that,"  'Nid  said.  "I  knew 
somehow."  She  showed  no  grief,  her  face  was  very  set 
and  white.  Jim  dying  and  she  had  meant  to  die;  it 
would  not  alter  her  intention,  it  would  only  make  it  the 
more  certain.  After  all,  the  road  might  not  be  so  lonely 
— was  she  selfish  to  think  of  that? 

"And  he  wants  me?"  she  said. 

"He  sent  me  for  you — you  must  follow  at  once." 

"I  will  come,"  she  said  quietly.  "Billy,  you — you  come 
with  me;  I'd  like  you  to  be  with  me,  Billy." 

So  they  went  together,  tramping  across  the  Downs, 
passing  through  the  village.  They  knew  in  the  village 
— there  was  grief  on  their  shocked  faces.  They  saw  'Nid 
and  bobbed  their  curtseys  to  her,  but  the  shadow  of  the 
tragedy  lay  heavily  on  them  all.  Sir  James  was  dying, 
they  had  carried  him  home  to  die ;  there  had  been  an  ac- 
cident and  every  one  in  the  village  was  conscious  of  a 
sense  of  personal  loss. 

'Mrs.  Wasser  stood  at  her  door.  "You,  Billy?"  she 
said.  "Where  you  been  this  long  time?" 

"With  'im,"  Billy  said;  "and  I'm  going  to  'im  now, 
mother,  'e  wants  me  and  'Nid." 

She  nodded ;  she  put  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

So  'Nid  came  to  the  house  that  she  had  never  thought 
t'o  enter  again,  and  there  was  a  strange  stillness,  an  un- 
246 


The  Finishing  of  the  Bridge 

canny  silence  reigning  over  it.  Servants  came  soft- 
footed,  stared  at  her  and  then  went  away  again.  There 
was  something  that  hung  heavily  in  the  atmosphere.  Jim 
was  right — this  place  could  never  be  home-like,  never 
like  the  little  cottage  with  its  green-painted  door,  never! 

She  went  into  the  huge  drawing-room;  she  thought 
to  see  Miss  Clare  there,  but  the  place  was  empty.  She 
stood  there,  a  lonely  little  figure,  shivering  in  the  middle 
of  the  vast  square  of  the  carpet. 

The  door  opened,  a  man  came  in — the  local  doctor. 
He  took  her  cold  hand.  "Sir  Walter  is  on  his  way," 
he  said.  "We  wired  for  him  at  once.  He  will  be 
here  in  half  an  hour.  Your  husband  wishes  to  see 
you.  Will  you  come?" 

She  did  not  answer;  she  went  with  him  up  the  stairs. 
It  was  all  like  some  dream.  She  was  back  here  again, 
but  she  felt  like  a  stranger,  an  outcast.  Jim  had  never 
meant  that  she  should  come  back — she  knew  that.  It 
had  never  entered  into  his  plans,  and  yet  she  was  back 
and  he  had  sent  for  her  and  wanted  to  see  her. 

"You  will  be  very  brave  and  control  yourself?"  the 
doctor  whispered.  "I  trust  you,  Lady  Bevanwood." 

She  started  at  the  sound  of  the  name,  the  name  she 
had  not  heard  for  months,  then  she  stole  into  the  room. 

Jim  lay  there  on  the  bed,  his  face  strangely  white, 
but  his  eyes  were  open.  Very,  very  slightly  he  turned 
his  head  as  she  came  in. 

"  'Nid !"  he  said ;  "  'Nid,  gel— 'Nid !" 

"Jim,  you  didn't  mean  me  to  come,  but  he — he  said 
you  sent  for  me." 

"It's  right,  'Nid!"  he  whispered;  "I  sent  for  you, 
'Nid.  There's  been  somethink  wrong,  somethink  I  didn't 
quite  understand.  I  understand  now,  dear;  you're  the 

247 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

same,  just  the  same;  you  didn't  belong  to  no  one  but 
me,  'Nid !  Do  you  remember  that  night,  the  night  when 
I  was  asleep  with — with  my  arms  on  the  table?" 

"Yes!"  she  said. 

"And  you — you  come  in  and  crep'  to  me,  'Nid,  and 
kissed  my  'ead  and  said  somethink.  Do  you  remember  ?" 

"Yes!" 

"I'd  like  to  'ear  you  say  that  again,  'Nid!"  he  said 
softly.  "Just  once  again." 

"You — you    want    me    to?"    she    said.     "Jim,    you 

want "     She  crept  to  him.     "I  didn't  mean  wrong, 

dear,  I  didn't  know ;  and  then — then  when  'e — 'e  tried  to 
kiss  me  I  hated  him ;  oh,  I  knew  all  of  a  sudden  it  was 
wrong  and  wicked  and  I  hated  him!  Jim,  you  don't 
understand !" 

"I  do,  'Nid,"  he  said.  "I  do  understand,  gel,  I  know! 
And  it  was  me  arter  all  you  cared  for,  old  Jim?" 

A  sob  broke  from  her;  she  went  to  him,  she  hung 
over  him. 

"May — may  I  kiss  you,  Jim?"  she  whispered. 

"May  you!"  His  eyes  smiled  up  to  hers.  "Isn't  it 
what  I  want — want  more  than  I  do  even  life,  even  now, 
when  life  means  somethink?  Kiss  me,  'Nid,  my — my 
gel,  kiss  me  and  tell  me  again  what  you  told  me  that 
night,  tell  me " 

"I  love  you,  oh,  I  love  you,  I  love  you !"  she  said. 

And  that  was  what  he  wanted  to  hear,  only  that. 

i 

'Nid  and  Billy  Wasser  sat  in  the  big  drawing-room; 
they  crouched  closely  together  side  by  side,  clasping  one 
another's  hands.  There  was  a  great  stillness,  an  un- 
broken silence  in  the  house.  Outside  in  the  hall  Geoffrey 
Clare  was  waiting.  The  passing  minutes  were  heavy 
248 


The  Finishing  of  the  Bridge 

with  doom,  with  dread.  He  was  suffering  and  praying 
as  he  had  never  prayed  in  his  life:  He  wondered  dimly 
how  so  much  agony  and  so  much  fear  could  be  crowded 
into  so  short  a  space  of  time.  An  hour  ago — two  hours 
— an  eternity  since  the  doctor  from  town  had  come.  He 
had  lost  count  of  time,  he  had  lived  through  the  ages 
it  seemed  to  him.  "If  he  dies  I  shall  tell  the  truth; 
I'll  face  it  if  he  dies — I  won't  let  him  save  me!"  he 
thought. 

There  was  a  movement  at  last,  the  sound  of  distant, 
subdued  voices,  the  creak  of  a  board  under  a  man's 
weight.  They  were  coming  down,  talking  in  low  voices, 
and  the  man  in  the  hall  waited  as  a  criminal  waits 
to  hear  the  verdict. 

They  came  into  sight  round  the  bend  of  the  stairs, 
the  little  stout  village  doctor  and  the  tall,  lean,  grave- 
looking  surgeon  from  town. 

"This  is  Mr.  Clare,  a  relation  of  Sir  James,"  the  local 
doctor  said. 

Geoffrey  did  not  speak ;  he  looked  at  the  tall  stranger. 

"A  very  satisfactory  result,  Mr.  Clare,"  he  said,  "but 

a  near  thing!  An  inch  to  the  left  and He  went 

on  speaking,  but  Geoffrey  did  not  follow,  did  not 
understand. 

"Will  he  live?" 

"Live — I  have  every  reason  to  believe  so.  Did  I  not 
say  that  it  was  all  very  satisfactory?  Yes,  he  will  most 
certainly  live,  so  far  as  the  hurts  of  to-day  are  con- 
cerned. Three  or  four  weeks  should  see  him  on  his 
legs  again." 

"Yes!"  Geoffrey  Clare  said— he  scarcely  knew  what 
he  said.  Jim  Bevanwood  would  live;  that  meant  that 

249 


James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

he  too  would  live.  It  was  life  for  both,  as  it  would 
have  been  death  for  both. 

"May  I— I  tell  her?"  he  said. 

"Of  course!    Carry  her  the  good  news  by  all  means!" 

So  he  went  to  'Nid  and  Billy,  and  they  lifted  their 
white  faces  and  stared  at  him. 

"It — it  is  all  right;  he  will  live — it's  over!"  Geoffrey 
said  shakily.  "  'Nid,  don't  you  understand  ?  It's  over ; 
he — he'll  be  all  right!  You — you  do  understand,  don't 
you,  'Nid?  Jim  will  live — the  hurt  wasn't  so  bad  as 
we  thought;  he'll  pull  through,  'Nid!" 

She  did  not  speak,  she  only  clasped  her  little  hands 
together  tightly.  Billy  broke  into  blubbering;  he  had 
borne  up  bravely  till  now — now  he  went  under  and 
flung  himself  face  downward  on  the  sofa  and  cried. 

"  'Nid,  I've  got  something  to  say !"  Geoffrey  said. 
"You — you've  got  to  know  the  truth;  he  didn't  mean 
any  one  to.  But  I'm  going  to  tell  you — I — I  did  it! 
He  meant  to  kill  me;  he  didn't  give  me  time  to  tell  him 
how — how  you  ran  from  me  that  night,  how  you  hated 
me  because  I — I  kissed  you ;  he  didn't  give  me  time.  He 
came  to  me  to  kill  me;  I  knew  that  he  meant  to  kill  me 
— my  sister  told  me.  She  could  have  told  him  the  truth, 
but  she  didn't;  you  could  have  told  him!" 

"What  was  there  for  me  to  tell?"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her.  "Nothing,"  he  said,  "nothing,  dear, 
you — you  didn't  understand.  But  I  did  it,  you  under- 
stand that?  I  fired  at  him.  I  was  afraid — afraid  of 
my  life.  When  he  knew  afterwards  he  wanted  to  pro- 
tect me;  he % said  it  was  an  accident,  and  it  was,  'Nid, 
it  was.  Only " 

"And  he — he's  going  to  live?"  'Nid  said. 

Had  she  heard  or  had  she  not?  He  did  not  know, 
250 


The  Finishing  of  the  Bridge 

he  never  did  know.  Perhaps  there  was  no  need  for 
her  to  hear;  she  may  have  known  all  along. 

"He's  going  to  live.  In  a  few  weeks  he  will  be  him- 
self, well  and  strong  as  ever  again,  'Nid — 'Nid,  you'll 
tell  him  I'm  glad,  won't  you?  I'm  going  now;  I  only 
waited  to  hear  the — the  best  or  the  worst." 

'Nid  had  turned ;  she  put  her  hand  on  Billy's  heaving 
shoulder,  she  bent  to  him,  she  laid  her  cheek  against  his. 

"Billy,"  she  said,  "Billy,  he's  going  to  live." 

And  when  she  looked  up  again  Geoffrey  Clare  had 
gone,  yet  she  never  noticed  it — she  had  forgotten  him. 

The  little  bridge  was  finished,  it  was  a  triumph  of 
art  and  skill.  'Nid  had  designed  it  because  Jim  had  asked 
her  to  and  'Nid  had  never  designed  a  bridge  before 
in  her  life.  Still,  what  did  that  matter? 

"It  looks  proper  and  fine,  don't  it,  'Nid?"  Jim  said. 

She  stood  beside  him  and  he  slipped  his  arm  around 
her. 

"It  looks  perfect,  Jim,"  she  said.  "And  it  belongs 
to  us — it's  home,  real  home.  But,  Jim,  the — the  winter's 
coming."  Her  voice  broke  a  little. 

"But  it'll  go,  gel,"  he  said ;  "and  then  the  spring'11  come 
and  me  and  you'll  come  back  'ome  again." 

"And  Billy?"  she  said.  She  lifted  her  head.  Billy 
was  sawing  and  whistling  cheerily  over  his  task. 

"And  the  winter  won't  be  so  long  passing,  'Nid,"  Jim 
said;  "and  we'll  know  it's  our  place,  we'll  know  it's 
'ere  waiting  for  us  to  come  back  to  it  when  the  spring 
time  comes." 

She  crept  a  little  closer  to  him.  This  evening  a  chill 
breeze  came  over  the  Downs  from  the  sea,  it  brought 

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James  Bevanwood,  Baronet 

the  yellow  leaves  rustling  down.  Yellow  leaves  drifted 
on  the  surface  of  the  stream  at  their  feet. 

"And — and  even  that  other  we — we  might  make  like 
home,"  she  said.  "It's  big  and  cold  and  not  like  this, 
Jim,  yet  still  it  could  be  a  little  like  home." 

He  put  both  his  arms  around  her  and  tilted  her  head 
backwards  so  that  he  could  see  into  her  eyes,  and  seeing 
into  them,  he  could  look  into  the  soul  of  her  and  knew 
it  all  for  his  own. 

"Where  you  are,  'Nid,  where  we  are  together,  gel, 
it's  going  to  be  Jome." 

"This  is  home,"  she  said;  "home  for  me  with  your 
arms  round  me,  Jim.  It's  all  I  want  in  the  world." 

He  smiled  down  at  her;  the  trees  rustled  in  the 
breeze,  a  few  more  red  and  yellow  leaves  drifted  down 
and  alighted  softly  on  the  surface  of  the  stream  to  be 
borne  away. 

From  the  faggot  heap  behind  the  cottage  Billy's  whistle 
sounded  loud,  shrill  and  persistent. 


THE  END 


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